


When Rome's in Ruins (We are the Lions)

by Kedreeva



Series: The Lions of Rome [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Arena AU, Cage match AU, Cagefighter AU, Dragons, F/M, Fantasy, Fight for Freedom, Fighting, Gen, Happy Ending, M/M, Slavery, Slow Burn, Supernatural Creatures, War, arena fighting, descriptions of panic attacks, everyone is alive AU, mentions of past non-con (kate/derek), pit fighting, sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2015-06-18
Packaged: 2017-12-27 07:02:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 209,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/975860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kedreeva/pseuds/Kedreeva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Humankind has turned arena battles between supernatural creatures into its largest form of entertainment. Stiles Stilinski is a well-known warden who comes to arena-fighter Derek Hale to make him an offer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Where Do We Begin?

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING, PLEASE NOTE: There are (or will be) allusions to/mentions of former abuse and non-con (Kate/Derek).  
> WARNING, PLEASE NOTE: There will be descriptions of arena fighting.  
> WARNING, PLEASE NOTE: There will be descriptions of panic attacks.
> 
> A HUGE THANK YOU to my main beta reader, [Elin](http://Firecracker452.tumblr.com) and to [BroodingSoul](http://archiveofourown.org/users/broodingsoul) and [Redbirdblogs](http://redbirdblogs.tumblr.com) for joining in partway through on the editing. Thanks also to everyone else who did my random chapter spelling/grammar edits along the way, and to those of you who sat and listened to me ramble at them (I'm looking at you, [Chasing](http://archiveofourown.org/users/chasingshadows) and [Ivy](http://stilesberg.tumblr.com)).
> 
> [Photoset on Tumblr](http://kedreeva.tumblr.com/post/62001936435).  
> [Artwork of Negira and Stiles by Kickingshoes](http://kickingshoes.tumblr.com/post/95336010247)
> 
> This started as a short re-write of [this previous drabble of mine](http://kedreeva.tumblr.com/post/37754047757), and quickly got out of hand.  
> Title is from "Young Volcanoes" by Fall Out Boy  
> The two chapter titles used are from "Pompeii" by Bastille.  
> Scene break quotes are from the [ARC Division Regulations Handbook](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1b4rpQbUfPnH7trJSekU5XxGomuWdaLdT07K0wNb7sac) and [Nodstrom's Guide to Supernatural Creatures](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1sMdWNu3b1exx29ZwlSev5zUSlj7ewzxcRwRTAzfWcoA).

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

_A win is declared when first blood is_

_drawn off the body of a game piece_

_by the opposing game piece._

* * *

 

          He heard the footsteps long before anyone appeared at the edge of the kennel. The steady, even beat of a new heart, the clack of well-made shoes against the cement as someone walked down the steps; both sounded as comfortable as if the human creating them were at home, and yet Derek didn’t recognize either. He moved away from the gate, toward the back of his pen, and listened to the shift of the others doing the same; newcomers didn’t come down by themselves unless they were armed, and he had no interest in feeling the zing of the long zap-sticks the Argents kept.

            What he did not expect was the burst of white as the human opened the door to the kennel area. The fabric was bright in the darkness, stark and clean and full of sharp creases. Derek raised his nose, caught a trace of aftershave and something else, something familiar but not quite recognizable. He stayed put rather than move to get a better look.

            It didn’t make a difference. The human stopped at the gate of his kennel.

            For a while, he just stood there, the edge of his tidy white suit bunched up around his wrists, hands in the pockets of his slacks. Derek kept his eyes down, off to one side, but he could see some. He could see the spray of beauty marks over the guy’s cheeks, the way the dots dipped beneath his collar; he was sure they were everywhere. He could see the close-cropped hair, the faint smile on the guy’s lips as he observed Derek. He faintly recognized the man, could remember seeing the shining white spot nestled in the cheering crowd at a few recent matches.

            “Not going to say hello?” the guy asked, finally, voice smooth and easy. Instead of responding, Derek scowled at the floor. Questions like that were almost always rhetorical, an excuse to goad his kind into misbehaving. His silence didn’t seem to faze the man, who merely leaned a little closer to the front of the pen.

            “I’ve heard your kind can imitate human speech.” He let that sit between them for a moment before withdrawing a hand from his pocket, sliding his long fingers through the caging. It was a dangerous move at best; if Derek really were a beast, he'd have taken those fingers off in a heartbeat. The guy just smirked as if he knew exactly what Derek was thinking and why he wouldn't do it. “I don’t think it’s imitation.”

            Forgetting himself, Derek’s eyes snapped up for only a heartbeat before he blinked, gaze slipping sideways. There was no one from the Argent household here to see the transgression, to see that he’d understood the words, but Derek had seen the guy’s eyes light up, the way his smile changed to predatory. He _knew_.

            “I’m not here to give you away,” he assured Derek. “I’m here to make you an offer.”

           Derek swallowed the growl starting in his chest, but still did not look. He’d been goaded before, when he was young. He’d snapped and snarled and bitten a few. He wasn’t interested in what followed.

            He felt more than saw the eye roll the man gave him, heard the soft whoosh of air as he sighed. “My name’s Stiles,” the guy offered, instead of pushing. “They call you Ashborn, but I don’t think that’s your name. Should I call you it anyway? Or do you have another name?”

            Risking another swift glance up, Derek gave him a confused look. No one, not a single human ever, had asked him his name- not even the ones who had plucked him from the ruins of his family’s home. They had caged him, collared him, marked him, named him, but they had never _asked_ him, and that was the only reason he would ever find for why he answered.

            “Derek,” he said, voice like sandpaper.

            Stiles smiled, a softer, near sympathetic gesture. “Okay, Derek. That’s good.” He took a breath and Derek could hear his heartbeat flutter a little. He wondered what Stiles was thinking, though he could probably guess. He knew what most humans were thinking when they visited his pen; he wasn’t wearing anything but the leather collar around his neck.

            But Stiles didn’t smell like them, didn’t reek of arousal, only of curiosity and confidence as he tipped his head and continued. “I’ve been watching your matches, Derek. You’ve won the last forty-three. That’s a nice streak. Almost enough to move you to Division 2.”

            Though Derek couldn’t help the way his teeth bared at the suggestion, he quickly pulled his lips shut and shook his head. Stiles didn’t seem surprised by it, didn’t seem angry over the threat display, but he also didn’t seem pleased to have gotten a punishable reaction out of Derek. He just seemed… disappointed.

            “The Argents aren’t licensed past Division 3. Something about… losing investments. The public reputation,” Stiles rambled onward, giving a small shrug. He rattled the gate of the pen, quickly and loudly enough that Derek looked up to him, finally, and found himself unable to look away from the man’s amber-brown gaze. “But I am. Licensed. All the way through Division 1. You could-”

            “No,” Derek told him coldly.

            “Oh, don’t be like that,” Stiles lamented, unshaken. He leaned forward until his forehead rested on the fencing. “It’s not what you think. I could get you out, you know.”

            “At what price?” Derek murmured, though he knew the price. The top-division fighters got out on a road paved in death, if they got out at all. Even if he could beat the odds and live through the experience, there would be no escaping what he had done to get there, or what he would have to do after.

           Better to stay here, safe and quiet.

            “You know the price,” Stiles answered, as though he could hear Derek’s thoughts. He was surprised; Stiles sounded as upset about it as Derek was, eyes going soft and pained. “There’s a price for everything. You’re paying one staying here, too.”

            “One I can live with,” Derek spat. “I haven’t killed anyone. I won’t.”

            “You will,” Stiles told him. There was no waver in his heart rhythm. He meant it. “Seven more matches in Division 3, a handful in 1 and 2… That’s all I’m asking. I have a friend who can help you at the end. Get you out. Really out, not just to the breeding pens.”

            At that, Derek drew back. There was no _out_ , not really. There was no place for werewolves like him to go, no place where _any_ supernatural creatures were safe, much less accepted into society. Yet this guy, this _warden_ , stood before him with a steady heart and told him otherwise.

            “Impossible,” Derek breathed, shaking his head. “How?”

            Stiles sighed, fingers tightening on the caging. “I’m sorry. I have to ask you to leave this place behind and come with me on faith for now. Derek,” he commanded when Derek’s gaze dropped again. “I _am_ asking. If you tell me no, I’ll leave. I won’t force you.”

            “No one _asks_ **us** anything,” Derek sneered, lips curling back from blunt teeth. As lenient as this guy seemed to be, he was sure baring fangs would cross a line. “We’re not _people_ to you.”

            Stiles took a deep breath, withdrew his hand from the fencing and returned it to his pocket as he settled back away from the gate. “I think you are,” he said quietly. “You’re not human, but that doesn’t mean you’re not a person. It doesn’t make you feral.”

            “The games do,” Derek finished for him. Stiles just nodded.

            “So?” Stiles prompted, ignoring the jab. “Will you come with me?”

            For one tense moment, Derek just stared. It had been a long time since he had been anywhere but the Argent estate or the game arenas. He supposed it didn’t matter which cage he was in; here or there. They would put him into matches where-ever he was.

            “Tell me why,” he whispered at last. “I’ll go, if you tell me. Why are you here? Why me? There are plenty of other supers for you to buy. Plenty of stronger fighters, especially in the top tiers.”

            Whatever Derek had said, it was extremely funny to Stiles, his raucous laughter pinging off the walls and causing the others in the kennel to start up howling and shouting. When the noise died down, Derek was just as confused as before, staring openly at Stiles, who gave him an already-fond grin and leaned forward as though to reveal a conspiracy.

            “I am here because _I_ have got a _terrible_ taste in friends,” he informed Derek with a wink. “And this one in particular has got me wrapped around her adorable little finger. It’s a shame, really.”

            “Who?” Derek asked, inching a little closer, senses finally catching up to the moment, screaming at him about the familiar scent clinging to the guy. He knew who it was, even before Stiles’ lips curved into another smile.

            “Lydia Martin, of course,” he replied. He gave a dismissive roll of his eyes. “She’s apparently rather taken with my most recent… _purchase_. And said purchase has been giving me a headache ever since Lydia showed her a picture of- well, you. Now they’re both insisting I bring you home for her.”

            Derek swallowed, moving back again, alarm churning at his insides, the spark of hope that he hadn’t wanted suddenly winking out. He’d known there was a catch; there was always a catch with humans, especially when Lydia Martin was involved. She worked for the Argents, dealt with all of their purchasing and selling. Of _course_ Stiles would have interacted with her at some point if he was down here, and of course he was trusted by her if he was here alone.

            Panic welled up inside of him, just a flash, before he remembered what Stiles had said. _I won’t force you_. That was unusual, but the guy’s heart had remained steady enough that Derek knew he’d meant it when he said he wouldn’t take Derek anywhere against his will, not even to a mate-ready female wolf. He was having a difficult time wrapping his head around it; walking away empty handed would be a heavy denial to the other wolf. Even without that factor, Derek had never heard of a game warden giving up a chance at a breeding they wanted.

            Something of his worry must have shown on his face, or perhaps he realized how it had sounded, because Stiles flashed him another smile, this one reassuring. “Derek,” he said, drawing Derek’s attention to him once more. “She’s not interested in being your mate. She’s your sister.”

 

* * *

_All game pieces must have_

_proper barcode identification._

* * *

 

            Being on the other end of the leash in Stiles’ hand was not at all what Derek was used to. For one, Stiles didn’t once yank on it, or even draw it taut. If he turned or began to move away while Derek was standing still, he hesitated, waiting for Derek to catch up and shuffle forward. Even when he appeared to not be paying attention, the line was slack- as was his grip. Derek didn’t have to wonder if he could pull it from Stiles’ grasp; it practically dripped from the ends of his fingers, ready to just fall on its own.

           If Derek hadn’t known better, he would have said Stiles hated touching the leash as much as Derek hated being on it.

            He wasn’t sure what he expected upon reaching topside of the Argent estate. He’d only been to the surface a couple of times since they had purchased him, as he was usually corralled or moved into the windowless transport trailers at the dock that made up most of the back end of the kennels. The only exit from the trailers was at the dock of whatever arena they had chosen for his match.

            The sunlight was bright, washing out color and warming his skin as they paused at the exit to talk to Lydia. He couldn’t help but think he would have behaved perfectly for a chance to stay out in this for a short time once in a while. His eyes slid closed as he turned his face up toward the sun, soaking it in as he waited.

            Despite that they were talking about him, Derek tried not to listen very closely. He hated when humans spoke of him or of others as if they were possessions. Less than living creatures, there only to be bargained for, traded, or purchased. What he did catch of their conversation, however, surprised him again. Stiles didn’t once use the pronoun ‘it,’ only ‘he.’ When he spoke of transacting money to purchase him, it was only to say that it was already done and _he’s right here,_ _Lydia_.

           She’d rolled her eyes and asked if he needed a handler since he never brought his own _, like you have a death wish, Stiles_. They bickered like they had known each other since childhood.

            “He’s not going to kill me,” Stiles told her, completely exasperated by the attitude she was taking. “I’m an excellent judge of character, you know.”

            “I know you think you are,” she replied dryly, then waved him off. “Go on, then. You’ll call me when you get home to tell me you’re safe.” It wasn’t a question. Derek found himself wondering, not for the first time, just how much power Lydia had that she could order a Division 1 warden around. Derek had never seen _anyone_ order wardens to do anything, especially those as obviously successful as Stiles was, no matter how long they’d known one another.

            At Lydia’s dismissal, they made themselves scarce quickly. Derek kept pace, giving a last glance behind him to the grounds of the estate where he had practically grown up. There were tall, black fences surrounding the entire grounds, made of wrought iron, placed for defense rather than decoration. The manor was not as big as he had thought it would be, though it looked just as old, sprawling over the rolling green of the grounds. He wondered how far the catacombs underneath really spread; at least double what was topside, judging by what Derek had seen. He was glad to be leaving it.

            The transport vehicle was yet another surprise. There was no trailer waiting for him, not even a specialized car with caging in the back. Not even child-locked doors.

            What awaited them in the drive - according to what Stiles proudly proclaimed as they approached - was a chunky blue Jeep Wrangler, rust edging up along the wheel wells, a soft cloth top folded up in the back where the extra seats should have gone. Stiles pulled up short just before the leash would have gone taut and turned to stare at him in question.

            “Is this going to be a problem?” Stiles asked, low and soft, like he wasn’t asking if Derek was going to cause a problem. Like he was concerned Derek didn’t want to ride in an actual car.

            Derek couldn’t help how wide-eyed he was. This was insane. There was a catch, somewhere. “Where should I sit?”

            Stiles looked over his shoulder at the Jeep and then back to Derek like he couldn’t determine which was more ridiculous. “Well, there’s only one other seat, because I’m certainly not letting you drive my baby. Oh,” he said, realization dawning in his eyes.      “There’s no locks. You just… sit. Well, and wear a seatbelt because I’m not getting a ticket.”

            “No trailer?” Derek breathed, chest tight. There had to be a catch.

            Face softening, Stiles crossed the distance between them, a mere few feet allowed by the leash. “Look at me,” he demanded, gentle and quiet. When Derek did, he smiled like all the sympathy Derek hadn’t seen since he was a child. “I don’t need to lock you up, Derek. You’ve got bad choices here. You can stay with me on this leash and I’ll take you to your sister, or you can make a break for it and they’ll find you eventually. They’ll bring you back to me, if they don’t carve the barcode off your back and rebrand you. So, how about you get in the car, and we’ll enjoy a nice summer ride back to my place for a reunion.”

            Derek took a short step forward, putting himself into Stiles’ personal space, but the human simply nodded once and turned his back to the werewolf.

            Throat tight at the completely blatant show of fearlessness, of trust, Derek followed him to the vehicle, accepting the soft, new clothes Stiles handed over when they arrived. They were much too big, the shirt hanging down almost to his knees and the stretchy pants falling low on his hips, ready to slide off if he moved wrong. Stiles made an offhand comment about not knowing his sizes and then began walking to the other side of the car, oblivious to what he’d done.

            The clothes were _new_.

            Only the faint scent of passing humans and car seats clung to the fabric and Derek found himself once again baffled; the human climbing into the driver seat could easily, even _unconsciously_ , have taken the opportunity to lay a subtle claim to Derek, mark him, own him by scent... but he hadn’t.

            He wondered if Stiles even understood the significance of the gesture.

            He didn’t have the words to express how much it meant, so he just clambered into the vehicle over the car door and settled into the seat.

            The ride itself was like nothing Derek remembered experiencing before. Without a top, the wind just blew past him, full of myriad scents, only some of which he could place but all of which left him reeling. The air was fresh and clear and even if gasoline and motor oil and baking asphalt mixed in, Derek could smell the trees they passed, and the water and the sunshine. He had nearly forgotten the smell of sunshine before it had been filtered through muddy glass and dust and grime. He was thankful for the whip of the wind on his face, stealing the tears that welled before they could fall.

            Through it all, Stiles just smiled and wordlessly let him enjoy it.

            He wasn’t sure what he'd thought Stiles’ home would be like. He wasn’t sure if he expected to be taken to a home at all, or if it would be another kennel like the ones the Argents kept, long lines of pens on either side of a cement hall. With the rusty little Jeep they were in, Derek half expected to be taken to a neighborhood full of small-town houses. Stiles’ well-manicured suit suggested it could have been a sprawling mansion a bit like the Argent estate. With the sort of money made on Division 1 fights, it could have been a small island.

            As it was, Stiles’ estate was both alike and different from the Argent estate; a rolling green lawn surrounded both houses, but there were no fences here beyond the ones Derek could see way in the back, low and white to pen in the cattle ranging the open field. A huge red barn huddled contentedly to the north of them, against the tree line of a thick, old forest.

            The house itself was low and sprawling, simple white and black paint humbling its size. Derek couldn’t help the way he gawked as they rumbled up the drive. He wondered if all he could see on the topside was dwelling space for humans and if so, just how many people lived here. There had to be a lot; Division 1 fights took place with at least one non-humanoid combatant. There was no way Stiles played with only humanoids, which meant that somewhere on these grounds-

            The faint sound of a dragon’s scream drifted to him on the breeze and his breath caught in his throat. He looked over at Stiles, but either he hadn’t been able to hear it or he hadn’t noticed it.

            Or he had, and it didn’t matter to him.

            There was something - something _dangerous_ \- to be said about not being fazed to hear the scream of a dragon. He had never met a fully-grown dragon, only the adolescents allowed to fight in Division 4, but even the young ones were large enough, powerful enough, _vicious_ enough to send a chill down Derek’s spine. Perhaps a little better he began to understand why Stiles didn’t need locks to keep a werewolf right where he wanted him.

            “So, this is home,” Stiles told him as they turned the final curve of the road and headed for the garage at one end. The engine shut off and Derek looked at him, watched him unbuckle his seatbelt and open his door. He began heading for the house without checking to see if Derek was even following. “Come on!” he called over his shoulder.

            “Aren’t you going to-” _lead me, take me, control me, make me, drag me, do **something**_ “-make sure I follow?”

            At that, Stiles turned around and stared at him. “I’m sorry, I thought I brought home a werewolf, not a little kid. Do I _need_ to babysit you?”

            Derek glared at him for a minute, completely out of his element. He touched lightly upon the leash still clipped to the collar around his neck- leather soaked in wolfsbane. Then he unbuckled his belt and clambered out of the Jeep, closing the door with a little more force than necessary; he wasn’t used to closing car doors.

            They were nearly to the screen door of the garage when it burst open and a small, dark-haired flurry of limbs flung itself at him, forcing him to catch or dodge. Luckily her scent nearly bowled him over as she reached him and he caught his sister as she leaped upon him, screeching his name happily. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but stare at Stiles with wide eyes and wrap his sister up in a crushing hug.

            “Cora?” he asked, pressing his nose into her hair and breathing deeply, the heady scent of family coursing through him like a balm. It had been years.

            “Yeah,” she murmured, nuzzling into his shoulder and giving him a final squeeze.

           Stiles was next, the moment she unwound herself. “You did it!” she shouted at him, and there was that laughter again, rich and easy. Derek shoved aside the thought that he could get used to it.

            “Hey, I said I would,” Stiles countered, scrunching his face.

            “You said you’d try,” she sniped.

            Rolling his eyes, Stiles opened the door to the house and motioned for them to precede him inside. “Just go,” he told her, exasperated. “You too, big guy. We’ll get you cleaned, take the grand tour, and then get some food, because I am starving.”

            “I don’t understand,” Derek said helplessly when Cora reached the doorway. He couldn’t bring himself to move any closer. His heart felt like it was going to break out of his ribcage and his head was spinning dizzier and dizzier.

            Stiles and Cora exchanged a look, and then Cora turned around fully, and put one hand on the door frame, giving it a solid pat. When she smiled, it was everything he had been missing since he was twelve. “You’re home,” she said.

 

* * *

_Division 3 Matches may take place_

_at any time of the year._

* * *

 

            If anything, the manor was larger on the inside than it had seemed from the outside. Their first stop was to a bathroom where he was left alone to shower after Stiles explained to him the knobs and where to find soaps and why there were six different kinds and no he did not have to use _all_ of them; and there was that laughter again, uncoiling the knot of worry lodging itself in Derek's belly.

            Although he had never used a real shower, only the spray pens, Stiles and Cora both assured him he would survive the experience and _don't come out until you stop reeking of the pit,_ Cora added. He wondered when she'd gotten so snippy. He wondered how long she'd been out of the arenas that he couldn't smell any trace of them on her.

            He wondered how long it would take the scent to leech from his skin if he stayed here, too.

            When he finally emerged, skin pink and raw from scrubbing, nails and hair and teeth clean, Stiles had brought him more clothing. Another soft t-shirt, loose blue jeans, and clean, white briefs. All of it smelled slightly of oak and darkness, but not of people, not of cleaners. They were new.

            He mumbled a quiet _thank you_ and another smile touched Stiles’ lips. Derek's head felt light with it; he'd seem more genuine smiles from this kid in a few hours than he'd seen from anyone in the past few years combined.

            After dressing, Stiles promptly took them through the entire house, talking about everything they saw.  Derek lost count of how many rooms they poked their heads in, or the number of bathrooms, or where the exits were in relation to where they were. Cora didn’t seem to have a similar problem, tagging along behind Stiles by a pace, her hands clasped at the wrist behind her back.

            She looked _amazing_. Healthy. Everything from her smooth skin to the way her hair shone just slightly when she moved told him that she had been well cared for. Her easy stance told him no one had hurt her here, that she thought Stiles posed no threat to her at all. Of any of it, though, Derek couldn’t seem to drag his gaze away from her unadorned neck.

            She caught him at it halfway through the tour, and held up her wrist. A silvery bracelet clung delicately around the joint, twisted to fold double. “If someone comes by, I can put it back on,” she told him. “You’ll get one too.”

            He swallowed. Silver wasn’t going to inhibit any of his abilities. It wouldn’t keep him from shifting or from healing. It wouldn’t even weaken him.

            “It has my information printed on it,” Stiles informed him from ahead of them. “I’ll re-do the barcode registration, of course, but they won’t ever have to put you through the scan if you wear one of those.”

            “Plus, they look nicer than that ugly thing you’re wearing.” She blanched and held out her hand. “Here, give it here.”

            Derek just stared. He couldn’t _take off the collar_. He hadn’t ever taken off the collar, not in the last 15 years; Lydia had taken it off for him twice since he arrived at the Argent estate, once when he outgrew his first collar and once when he’d been injured and needed treatment beneath the collar. The second time she had clasped cuffs around his wrists instead. The punishment for removing one’s own collar was severe; enough that Derek had only heard stories while he waited in the pits before matches.

           Seeming to sense the hesitation, Stiles waved Cora off and approached Derek, palms out to show he meant no harm. “It’s okay,” he murmured, raising his hands toward Derek’s neck.

            Without prompting, Derek lifted his chin, baring his throat to the human to allow him access. Stiles’ fingers were warm on his skin as he undid the intricate clasp, the smooth leather sliding free and into his hands. Derek swallowed, feeling exposed now, vulnerable; the collar was a prison, but it was also a guard, thick and tough, preventing anything from tearing out his jugular too easily. Fidgeting, he met Stiles’ gaze.

            “Your room’s this way,” Stiles told him softly, wrapping the leather around his own wrist and  fastening it there, coiling the leash still attached to it to hold. “It’s just down the hall from mine, and next to Cora’s. There aren’t a lot of people here, and they all… know about Cora. And you.”

            Derek gave a little nod, to show he understood, and glanced uncertainly to Cora. This was illegal. This was really, really illegal and if inspectors ever walked into Stiles’ home and found them here, collarless like this, Stiles could lose a lot of money at the very least. A lot of accusations could come his way, a lot of investigations. He didn’t know what to say in the face of all of that, so he just clamped his mouth shut and followed Stiles down the hall.

 

* * *

_All game pieces must wear species_

_appropriate identification at all times._

* * *

 

            “There are fifteen pens in all,” Stiles told him, leading him down the center alley of the barn. Up close it was even larger than it had seemed, large enough - apparently - to hold fifteen pens for non-human supernaturals. The walls were not made of wood; most of them looked to be iron or steel of some kind, the bars thick and solid and cross-hatched. This was expensive housing, the sort that there was no way Stiles just fell into; this was the sort of housing that took years of winning and investment to create. “The one on the end is the biggest.”

            Derek looked to the end of the hall, burning with curiosity about what it could possibly contain, but he still felt uncomfortable asking questions without prompting. Whatever else Stiles was, he was still _human_ , and that had never meant anything but fear and pain and hate for Derek.

            At lunch, however, Cora had spoken animatedly about how okay it was, how he could say what he wanted, ask whatever questions he had. Stiles wasn’t out to hurt them, she’d said. He had found her at the auction and bought her on Lydia’s insistence. When they arrived at the estate, he had locked her in her room for three hours until she quit throwing things at him long enough for him to explain that he wasn’t going to make her do anything, _will she please calm down_. Since then, Cora told him, she’d been convinced that Stiles wasn’t going to hurt her.

            Years of maltreatment told Derek otherwise. They always wanted something, no matter how sweetly humans spoke or how kindly they acted at first. But Stiles had seemed sincere when he suggested Derek could ask questions, and that was enough for Derek to unclench his jaw.

            “What’s in it?” Derek asked quietly.

            “My dragon,” Stiles told him, a sly grin on his face. Derek didn’t want to like that smile, but it was rapidly getting under his skin. He looked so _pleased_ with himself. “I raised her from a baby. She’s how I started all of this. Come on, I’ll show you.”

            Together they tromped down to the end of the lane, past other supernatural things in their cages - which Derek very pointedly did not look at without permission - until they reached the end. The last enclosure was huge, easily taking up half the barn, and Derek immediately saw why. Coiled in a ball atop a man-made rocky outcrop, lay a sleek black dragon, soaking up the warmth from the heated coils overhanging the perch. When Stiles whistled, she raised her head, blinking sleepy red eyes at him before uncoiling and stretching like a cat. She practically dripped from the rocks, slithering over to the fencing.

            Stiles stuck his hand through the grate and Derek only had time for a strangled noise of warning before the dragon was pressing her snout into Stiles’ palm. A low, rumbling noise filled the air and Derek felt his heartbeat rise; he had never actually fought a dragon before, but something instinctive within him reacted, prepared to defend himself.

            “It’s okay,” Stiles told him, fingertips coming to rest on Derek’s forearm. The shift threatening to overtake him, so easily brought to the surface without the collar, retreated instantly at the contact and Derek met his gaze with wide eyes. There was that smile again. “She’s purring. It’s okay. I mean, for me. She’d probably try to kill you.” He scrunched his face a little. “She’d probably win.”

            “She’s a Division 1 piece,” Derek breathed, the realization of exactly what they were standing before catching up with him. This was a creature who had killed, who felt no remorse about destroying anyone who appeared across the arena from her. He couldn’t help but wonder how many other wolves had lost their lives to her.

            Nodding, Stiles turned his attention back to her, scratching along her lower jaw as she leaned into the attention. “Her name is Nightshade. Well,” he corrected. “Her name is _Negira_ , but, you know… arena names.”

            “You’re not afraid of her,” Derek commented, shifting uneasily. No wonder Stiles hadn’t seemed perturbed when they had heard her shriek earlier.

            “No,” Stiles agreed, smiling fondly at the creature. It could tear him apart in twenty different ways without having to think about it. Three bites from her maw and he’d be gone, devoured. She pressed into his palm, begging for more petting. “My dad brought her egg home when I was little, and he helped me hatch her in our bathroom. He showered at work for half a year just so we could fill the tub with sand and heat the room. She won her first Division 5 match when I was nine and… well.” He shrugged, as if it would be so easy for anyone.

            He shuffled a little closer and a low growl rose from her until he stopped. He could see her wings through the grate, the edges of the webbing frayed a little. Pink and white scars marred her hide where he could see. She had been in many fights, which spoke of how long Stiles had been doing this with her. Division 1 fights were only allowed to take place quarterly.

            “Do you want to meet the others?” Stiles asked. “They’re not as nice, but you’ll come up against creatures like them if you’re going to do this.”

            A quick nod from Derek had them backtracking away from Negira’s enclosure. Derek couldn’t help but think as they walked away that it was nicer than any he had seen other non-humanoids kept in. There was space enough for her to stretch her wings, even to glide between perches briefly. Real foliage covered the ground and hung from the ceiling rafters and grew up the sides. He wondered who maintained all of it.

           Then they were standing before the closest of the pens, and Derek had to squint to see what was inside the darkness. Stiles banged once on the front and then stepped back as something came snarling and snapping to the forefront. It couldn’t get its teeth through the grating, but that didn’t stop it from trying, sickle claws hooked through the holes.

            “Chimera,” Stiles supplied at Derek’s wide-eyed expression. “Rare only because they’d rather die than be caught. This one’s a rescue from the south; we had to truck him up a couple hundred miles. Did you know they spit acid? It was ridiculous.”

            “This one doesn’t?” Derek asked. They were obviously not covered in acid spit.

            “Oh, he does,” Stiles confirmed. “Just, not at me anymore. That was a hard-won lesson.”

            Derek didn’t ask. He didn’t want to know.

            There were other creatures, four of them, and they visited all of them briefly. Stiles knew each of their personalities, had names for all of them. Toward the main entrance of the barn, there were six pens that looked less like natural wildlife enclosures and more like human living quarters. There were walls made to look like house fronts a few yards into the enclosure with doors leading beyond. Only one of the pens was visibly occupied. A young woman sat in a comfortable looking recliner, reading a book.

            “Good afternoon, Kali,” Stiles greeted, leaning against the grate.

            She flicked her gaze to him, and then back to her book, obviously ignoring him.

            “She doesn’t like me much,” Stiles confided to Derek with a wry smile.

            “She can hear you, human,” Kali told him smoothly. Then she caught sight of Derek, and straightened up a little. “Who’s this?”

            “Ashborn,” Stiles introduced before Derek could say anything.

            A smile lit her face at that. “You found him, then. You should tell Deucalion. He’s been looking forward to meeting Talia’s son for quite some time.”

            Stepping forward, Derek slammed a hand into the grate, ignoring the flash of red in the other werewolf’s eyes. “How do you know her name?” He hadn’t seen his mother since the fire. He hadn’t even heard her _name_ in over a decade.

            “Hey,” Stiles said sharply, grabbing his wrist and tugging him away from the pen. “They knew your family. Cora’s been out here talking to them. They had nothing to do with the fire.”

            “They?” Derek asked, trying to calm his racing heart.

            “The others,” Stiles explained, pointing to the enclosures around them. “Kali, Deucalion, Ennis. Ethan and Aiden, the twins. My alphas, my Division 2 pieces. I looked into it when Cora arrived, and they had nothing to do with it, okay? But Deucalion knew your family.”

            Derek took a moment to just breathe, swallowing his anger, swallowing his grief and regret, until he had calmed down enough to ask: “You’re keeping them in pens?” It was safer than pressing further into his past.

            “As adorable as they are,” Stiles said, and Kali snarled at him before turning back to her book. “I don’t trust them not to slit my throat. I trust them to fight. And win.”

            “Not Division 1.” Whatever deal Stiles wanted to cut for his freedom, it could have been them. It would take a lot to make it out alive, but they were already alphas, he could smell it all around him. Five alpha werewolves, all kept under one roof, all proven killers. They had a much better chance at giving Stiles what he wanted.

            “I’ve offered them Division 1 matches.” Stiles shrugged. “They enjoy being big fish in a little pond.”

            Though he didn’t believe it, he nodded. No wolf he knew, no wolf he’d ever met, enjoyed being caged, especially not through the full moon. There was no way any of them were here in accordance to their wishes, no matter how well they appeared to tolerate it.

            But it wasn’t his place to argue for them, so again he just kept his mouth shut and followed Stiles out of the barn.

 

* * *

_Failure to provide game piece registration_

_upon request may result in penalties._

* * *

 

            The sun was setting as they headed back to the house, Derek following a pace behind Stiles as he had seen Cora doing earlier. They ended up in a dining area with a plain, long table made of some sort of light-colored wood, populated by a dozen chairs and two people Derek hadn’t seen yet. They were seated side by side, sharing a couple of plates of food. Both of them nodded to Stiles when they arrived and shot Derek curious looks.

            “This is Derek,” Stiles introduced, scooting around the side of the table to get to the far side. Derek remained standing by the doorway, unsure of what exactly was expected of him here. The only times he’d ever been removed from the kennels had been when Kate came calling, and that was never for dinner.

            “Nice to meet you,” said the blonde, giving him a little wave. She nudged at the dark man beside her, and he looked up with a roll of his eyes.

            “Hey,” he greeted as well, spearing a long green vegetable on the end of his fork.

           Stiles smiled. “This is Erica,” he said, indicating the still-smiling woman. “And that ball of sunshine beside her is Boyd. They’re two of my handlers.”

            All of Derek’s muscles tightened slightly at the mention, his shoulders hunching and his eyes dropping down to the ground non-threateningly. They all looked up at his silence, Erica and Boyd exchanging looks full of trepidation. The only handlers Derek was likely to have been exposed to served under the Argents or the arenas, and neither would have been prone to being gentle. The scars left on werewolves and other fast-healing fighters ran much deeper than the physical ever could.

            “We’re not going to hurt you,” Erica said softly, already picking up her silverware and putting it on the edge of her plate. Boyd was following suit.

            “Guys,” Stiles pleaded with a little exasperated noise. “You don’t have to leave. Derek-”

            “It’s okay,” Boyd interrupted, pushing his chair back. “It’s a nice evening. I haven’t eaten on the veranda in a while.”

            Erica flashed Stiles a sympathetic smile. “It took Cora a couple of days, too. We’ll be fine.”

            Stiles could do nothing but nod, watching as they cleared their plates and disappeared out the doorway opposite of where Derek still stood. Derek shifted nervously once they had gone, misery burrowing under his skin at the idea that he might have done something wrong, something to make them leave. It was their job to do anything necessary to make him do whatever was required of him. Under no circumstances had handlers ever relinquished space to him or left him alone outside of a kennel or arena.

            Taking a deep breath, Stiles lifted his hands from the table and walked slowly to stand in front of him. Derek couldn’t help the slight flinch when Stiles tilted his head to try and catch Derek’s downcast gaze without touching him.

            “Derek,” he said softly.

            Breath stuck in his chest, heart hammering hard, Derek nodded just enough to acknowledge he’d heard. When Stiles didn’t continue, he risked a glance up. Stiles offered him a sad smile.

            “No one here is going to hurt you,” Stiles stated firmly. “Not me, not the handlers, not the vet, not the other fighters. Okay?”

            Derek swallowed, mouth dry. “Okay,” he repeated, trying to force himself to relax. The handlers were gone. Stiles hadn’t hurt him yet.

            “Are you hungry?” Stiles asked.

            “Yes,” Derek responded. He could still smell whatever the handlers had been eating, and it smelled delicious, making his stomach clench in want. The Argents had never starved their fighters - a hungry fighter was a weak fighter, after all - but the nutrient paste all of their fighters were fed was a far cry from appetizing.

            “Then pick a seat, I don’t care which one, and I’ll get us something to eat.” Stiles swept an arm back, indicating the entire table they now had to themselves.

           Derek looked between him and the seats, realizing after a moment that Stiles was waiting for him to move. Hesitantly, Derek chose a seat near where Stiles had been about to sit before, and slid into the chair. He wasn’t really sure where to put his hands - on the table? under it? at his sides? - so he just put them in his lap and watched Stiles give an approving nod before disappearing through the same door as the handlers had earlier.

            A few moment later, Stiles returned with bowls full of something stringy and off-white, covered in some kind of bloody-looking sauce. The scent of the spices covered everything but a sharp tang Derek couldn’t place. Derek wasn’t sure how he felt about it, except that it smelled amazing.

            “Okay, no complaining,” Stiles said as he placed one of the bowls in front of Derek and flourished a piece of silverware at him. Derek thought it was a fork. “It’s just leftovers, since we missed dinner. They didn’t save us any asparagus either, so I’m going to hand someone’s ass to them tomorrow morning.”

            Since he didn’t know what an asparagus was or why it was worth murdering someone over, Derek merely accepted the fork with a nod of acknowledgement. He watched Stiles move back to the head of the table with his own bowl, take a seat, and start digging in. As they hadn’t eaten since that morning when he’d picked up Derek, it was understandable. Derek shifted uncomfortably, trying to judge how Stiles was holding the utensil in his hand so that he could copy.

            Stiles, of course, caught him at it before he had awkwardly managed to take a bite, the stringy food sliding ridiculously off the tines of the fork and back into the bowl. “Ohh riiight…” Stiles breathed, looking embarrassed. “Try twirling it,” he instructed, mimicking the action with his own fork, showing Derek how to twist the fork the get the noodles to wrap around it.

            After a few more tries and a noise of frustration, Stiles began to laugh. Derek looked up sharply, ready to just use his hands, but Stiles was already pushing his chair back from the table and motioning for him to follow. A cold feeling settled in Derek’s gut; he was hungry, and he didn’t want to leave the food behind.

            “I’m sorry,” he blurted, getting to his feet. “I can eat it.”

            “It’s okay,” Stiles told him, grinning. “We’ll deal with silverware later. I forgot it took Cora a few tries to get pasta. We’ll just grab hotdogs or something, no silverware required!”

            Derek tried to tamp down on the horror that washed through him. “I don’t want to eat dogs,” he said, before he could think about it.

            At that, Stiles burst into the same sort of raucous laughter as he had when Derek had first suggested he find a different fighter. It startled Derek, set his heart racing. “Oh my gosh,” Stiles managed, breath heaving as he laughed. “No, oh geeze, there’s no dogs in hotdogs.” He sobered, looking suddenly concerned. “I think. Probably. We can read the label.”

            He didn’t bother pointing out that he couldn’t read, just followed silently as Stiles exited the dining room, back into a kitchen. The floors were cool, stone tile, the walls stainless steel. Derek couldn’t help but stare as they skirted a couple of counters and came out near what appeared to be some sort of cooler. Next to it was a wooden door and Derek could smell dry goods beyond it.

           Without a word, Stiles disappeared into the cooler. Derek caught the door handle so that it didn’t close and trap him, surprised at the instinct. He stared at his hand on the silvery handle until Stiles pushed back out, holding a package of cylindrical meats. His attention was focused intently on the tiny black words printed on the surface of the wrapper, brow furrowed. When he looked up, he pursed his lips.

            “Maybe we’ll try something else.”

 

* * *

_Registration must be current and_

_kept on the warden’s person at all times._

* * *

 

            By mid-morning, Stiles had filled out and handed off the appropriate paperwork to register his newest acquisition with the Arena Regulatory Committee, barcode services, and Division registrars. They would still need medical registration and clearance before he could enter Derek into any match, but that wouldn’t take long. Lydia had sent electronic copies from the Argent records before he’d even gotten home the day previous. The ARC re-registration would take the longest, up to two weeks before they recognized that the game piece had transferred owners and was registered and cleared for play. All of the rest of the registrations would make their way to ARC headquarters and be filed together.

            The only thing Stiles hated more than filling out paperwork was waiting for someone else to fill out paperwork.

            With a sigh, he shoved away from his writing desk and ran his fingers through his hair. He hadn’t seen or heard from Derek or any of the handlers all day. It wasn’t unusual for his staff to avoid him on paperwork days - they knew it made him cranky - but there was a new fighter on the grounds. Isaac had sent a text saying Cora was in the library with him, but no word on Derek. Someone should have reported something to him by now.

            Slipping on house shoes, Stiles padded out of his room and headed down the hall toward Derek and Cora’s rooms.

 

* * *

_Wardens may not participate in wagering_

_upon the outcome of a fight in which_

_any of their game pieces are entered._

* * *

 

            Derek heard him approaching long before Stiles poked his head around the open door. He looked up and back down quickly, hands folded in his lap where he sat on the edge of the soft bed. Too soft; after an hour of trying to find some comfortable way to sleep, Derek had slid off of it, curling up on the floor underneath it, where it was dark and firm. He very vaguely remembered a den, remembered the feel of the walls, of warm, furry bodies around his- but not enough to miss it.

            Throwing a glance around the room, Stiles knocked lightly on the door, like maybe Derek hadn’t seen or heard him enter. “May I come in?”

            Eyes closing, Derek took a breath, trying to stop the thump of his heartbeat in his ears. This was Stiles’ space and he didn’t need to ask Derek for permission. “Yes,” he said quietly. There was no other answer to give.

            The door clicked as Stiles shut it behind him, moving just enough into the room to do so, but not enough to be intruding. He threw another glance around the room as if something were missing and he needed to find it. “I haven’t seen you all morning,” he said quietly. “I thought I’d come see if you were alive.”

            It was clear that Derek was alive, so he didn’t bother saying so, just stared at his hands in his lap. He didn’t want to be nervous around Stiles, but the human was here looking for him, wanting something. What he wanted could be nearly anything, but Derek knew enough to know that wardens didn’t visit game pieces without a reason, without an objective. He’d known what his last warden wanted when she visited, but there was no indication what-so-ever that Stiles was here for the same- he smelled clean and frustrated.

            Stiles sighed. “What are you doing?”

            Derek looked up, unaware that he’d been doing anything. “Waiting,” he responded, as truthfully as he was able.

            “Oh,” Stiles said. He gave another look around, as if there might be some clue as to what Derek was waiting for, exactly. When nothing was forthcoming, he just asked. “For?”

            Shrugging, Derek looked back down, a little wince flinching his features. “Just… waiting.” He’d done a lot of waiting in the past. The Argents hadn’t seen much point in extravagance. The pen where he’d been kept was a clean, smooth-cement enclosure, ten by ten feet, with a straw pad for sleeping, a water dispenser, a tray unit for food, and a ridged drain in the back. Waiting had been a lot of Derek’s life there.

            Stiles stared for a moment, and then slowly crossed the room. Derek tensed when he took a seat on the edge of the bed as well, a few feet between them. Neither of them said anything and Stiles made no move to get closer, but also gave no indication that he meant to leave. Taking whatever he was doing at face value, Derek turned his attention back to his hands and they sat like that for a while. It might even have been peaceful if Derek hadn’t been so worried something worse was coming.

           “I registered you today,” Stiles eventually said. He kicked one leg out a little, letting his calf bounce on the bed frame. “Though it’ll probably be three weeks before I can get you into a match again.”

            “Okay.” Derek wasn’t used to responding verbally, but it seemed to be what Stiles was looking for.

            “Is it?” Stiles asked, glancing over. Derek looked up at the same moment, but Stiles’ face held nothing but earnest curiosity. “Is it okay? Do you still want to fight?”

            “No,” Derek replied. When Stiles began to nod, when the beat of his heart picked up, Derek went on. “I never wanted to fight.”

            “Will you?” Stiles asked then. There was no demand in it, no form of order, so different than the confident _you will_ that Stiles had assaulted him with the day previous. He wondered if he would have said yes to this sort of uncertainty.

            “Yes,” Derek told him, without hesitation. “You said you could get me out.” He let the question hang unspoken between them. He wanted to know _how_. No one _got out_ of the arena pit, not really. Supernatural creatures like him either died in the pits, fought until they were too old for anything but euthanasia, or - and the luck in it was debatable at best - got retired to breeder status. There was no _out_ once the collar was around their neck.

            But Stiles had taken off Derek’s collar, and now he had no idea what was or was not possible anymore.

            Stiles sucked in a breath, clearly having expected the question eventually. “Right. That. Tell me- how much do you know about Division 1 fighting?”

            All Derek could do was shrug. He’d never been in a Division 1 fight, but he knew what the others in the match pens said, the lone fighter who had been lucky enough to be retired back to Division 3. “Death matches,” he replied. “People like me against creatures like Negira. They’re rare outside of special facilities because the arena has to be stronger.”

            “Yeah,” Stiles confirmed. “They mostly take place in Div 1-and-2-specific venues. Division 2, that’s mostly easy to get by in; I mean, on my end, it runs the same as Div 3 matches. Keep all your records straight, and then you get to pick the matches, or agree to challenges.”

            “You decide beforehand who we fight?” Derek asked softly. It seemed like a very big setup when put like that. Planned fights. He hadn’t thought his disgust for the entire venue could run any deeper.

            “Well, yeah. Mostly.” Stiles nodded, risking a glance over to him and wincing. “I mean, there’s a lot that goes into it, of course, but yeah. We pick who fights who, and when, and how often our game pieces fight. Most importantly, we can choose to move down in Division at any time, without doing anything more than reactivating the previous registration.”

            “But…?” Because he could hear the but in Stiles’ tone, knew that there was a catch coming. He hated that he had started to hope there wasn’t a catch after all; it made it that much worse to finally find it.

            “But,” Stiles began, letting out his breath. “When you move to Division 1, you have to sign a contract. It seals you into a certain number of fights - usually four, sometimes six or eight - before you’re free to do anything else with your game piece; if they even survive. After that, you get a choice, and it’s always been a really shitty choice,” said Stiles with a little offended huff of laughter.

            “Death or breeding,” Derek commented dully. "Or go right back into the pit."

           A dry, mirthless chuckle preceded Stiles rubbing at his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Basically. Derek,” he said, waiting until Derek met his eyes. “There’s a good chance, no matter what choice lies at the end, that you won’t make it through Division 1 alive. So, if you don’t want to do this, I understand. We can retire you into Div 3 and you can fight the minimum required to keep you here.”

            “Just tell me,” Derek breathed.

            Taking a deep, steadying breath, Stiles nodded. “At the end of a Div 1 contract, we can choose to renew - which is what I do every two years with Negira - or you can retire the piece to a lower Division or a breeding facility.”

            “But there’s something else, now,” Derek concluded, eyes narrowing a little at the expression on Stiles’ face.

            “Yeah,” Stiles agreed. “Or at least, there could be. A way out.” For a moment he seemed to struggled with something, then sighed. “Look, it’s a really long story, and there’s someone you should meet before I tell it to you, but for now, just know that the ARC is giving me a chance to prove something to them. If I can move a piece through Divisions 2 and then 1, they’ll let me test another option.”

            “Freedom,” Derek concluded.

            “Community,” Stiles corrected softly. “A preserve about a hundred miles north of Sacramento. We’re petitioning for them to allow the full release of Division 1 survivors within its bounds.”

           For a long moment Derek just stared, turning over the information, watching the worry flicker over Stiles’ expression. This was what Derek had agreed to, not knowing what it was.

            “But we couldn’t leave.” He knew the answer, and he could see that Stiles knew that he knew, so Derek just sighed, turning on the bed and scooting up to sit against the headboard. “It's just trading one cage for another, then.”

            Stiles pursed his lips, but he nodded, and Derek knew that he at least understood that it wasn’t a solution; it wasn’t truly freedom. “It’s a step in the right direction,” Stiles told him, voice low even though there was no one else here to hide secrets from. “If you want to wait to decide, or if you want to go see it before you decide, that’s fine. I’ll take you out there myself. So… there’s that.”

            Derek fell silent, again turning the idea over in his head, touching all the angles. There was no good reason for Stiles to lie to him about this, even if Derek hadn't been able to hear the steady beat of his heart. It wasn't ideal, or even close, but it wasn't a fighter pen. It wasn't knowing he'd someday die in a collar, penned or bloody. Maybe it wasn't a lot of hope, but any hope was more than he'd had two days ago.

            "If I do this, make it through," Derek began. "It wouldn't be just me, would it? Others could get out after?"

            "That's the plan," Stiles told him. "We show it works, that a warden would be willing to choose it and that my friend’s group can run the preserve safely, and they make the change."

            Nodding, Derek looked back down to his hands. He took a deep breath. “Okay.”

            “Okay,” Stiles said, letting go of his breath in a huff of relief. He gave a hesitant smile.

            “I mean, _okay_ ,” Derek corrected, watching Stiles’ eyes widen as he realized that Derek was agreeing to the terms. He didn’t need to see the sanctuary - although he would go, if Stiles would take him - to know that he wanted to try. It wouldn’t be easy or fun. The price would be unimaginable, if he made it through, but the idea of a place where he could roam out of restraints, feel the touch of the sun and wind and rain on his skin… it was worth it. The idea of a place where the full moon shift would not be agony was definitely worth it. “I’ll do it.”

            “That’s great!” Stiles exclaimed, immediately looking abashed afterward. “I mean, not really. It’s going to suck, but… well, you know.”

            “I know,” Derek agreed, because he did know, and maybe that was the worst part.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

* * *

_A game piece shall be defined as_

_any fighting-class, non-human creature_

_of supernatural origin_

_registered to a certified game warden_

* * *

 

            He wasn't sure he would ever get used to the feeling of air breezing over his neck, or the grass beneath his feet. Stiles had given him shoes, several pairs of them in various sizes until they found ones that fit comfortably, but Derek found he couldn't stand them. He'd been separated from the feel of the earth for almost his entire life; he didn't need any more of that than absolutely necessary.

            He could have run across the lawn, could have shifted and run full-wolf as he hadn't done since he was a pup. It would have taken only a moment or two to cover the acres between the house and the barn, which was why he hadn't. Instead he walked slow, pressing each step into the soft ground, feeling the sun scorching down from the clear, blue sky. It was a nerve-wracking thrill, with only the word of a young human to assure him all of it would not be taken away from him.

            At first he had been hesitant to leave the house. He'd waited in his room, though he was not sure what for, exactly. Stiles had told him there would be no matches for at least two weeks, maybe three. The handlers appeared to have no interest in him. Even Cora hadn't come to find him, though he could hear her heartbeat a floor down from him in the library, alongside another.

            There was no precedent in his life for being _bored_. There had never been other options for how to spend his time outside of the pit; there was only waiting. Here, there was more, and he found that after a few hours he began to wonder exactly how much more. He wanted to know how many people he could find, and where the grounds ended, and what the other fighters would tell him if he asked.

            The last question was the reason why he was crossing the grounds toward the barn. After a crushing period of trying to make his own decision about what he should do with his time, he had decided to seek out the other werewolves. All of the still-unanswered questions had left his skin crawling with a curiosity he didn't feel comfortable sating by asking any of the humans. The werewolves would have answers, though.

            When Derek rounded the northwest corner of the barn, he froze.

            Stretched out in the grass, wings open to the midday sun, lay Stiles' black dragon.

            Her head lifted at his arrival, swiveling around on her long, sinuous neck.

            His stomach swooped down, fear icing through his veins quick enough it made him dizzy. Some part of him knew that he should run, screamed at him that there was no way he was going to win this fight, but he couldn't get any of his limbs to obey. All he could do was stare, dread shredding at his insides as he stared into those bright, red eyes.

            He saw the curl of her lips, her teeth yellow-white against the black of her scales, and then he was mentally assaulted with _through me_ over and over, more a feeling than words. She wasn't going to let him get to Stiles without a fight.

            The sound of skin hitting scale burst into the silence, as Stiles patted her shoulder to draw her attention, and the fear began to subside to a more manageable level. It was then that he knew that it was all a projection. Some of the fear coursing through him was his own, but when she looked away from him, he could feel that most of it was alien, shoved upon him by the dragon.

            Vaguely, as if through glass, Derek heard his name repeated several times before his head was clear enough that he could focus his eyes. Standing in the arc of the dragon's neck, between her massive paws, was Stiles, looking at him with his head tipped in inquiry. His heart was still hammering in his ears, his breath heaving in his chest when Stiles spoke.

            "You felt it," Stiles said, giving him an appraising look.

            "What was it?" Derek choked out, skin still crawling with the dissipating, foreign sensation. An echo of fear still pressed at his chest, making it hard to breathe.

            "Something very unfortunate," Stiles told him, turning back to his task. He smoothed one filthy, blackened hand over her scales. "It's her neural net. Only a few dragon species have one, and even fewer can reliably use them. In the wild, they cast them out to halt prey, to make a stoop easier."

            "I'm not prey," Derek managed, though he wasn't sure if that was accurate. He'd never seen a dragon in the wild; maybe they did eat werewolves. The thought was not reassuring in the least.

            "You're not," Stiles assured him with a small chuckle.

            "She didn't do that before." It was practically an accusation, but a quiet one. His heart sped up a little every time he spoke, reminding him of how dangerous it had always been to interact with humans.

            "You were with me," Stiles said simply, smoothing his hand over the long curve of her neck. With a contented noise, she pressed into his touch, red eyes closing as he repeated the motion. Derek held still and just watched the two of them until the desire to turn and flee subsided.

            "Doesn't... seem fair," he said finally. "In a fight."

            "Oh, it's not," Stiles agreed. "They've banned some of the other species that can use them. There are actually twenty one species of dragon in the world - well, that we know of - but only six are approved for the arena."

            For a moment, Derek struggled with adding up what that meant. There wasn't a lot of time for math in his world. "What about the other... fifteen?"

            "Fifteen," Stiles confirmed without hesitation as he moved around to rub down the shoulder closest to Derek. "Well... there are two species declared intelligent, and we leave them alone. I don't think either of them lives in the NAS, so we don't really see them. There are seven species disqualified by size or weight restrictions. The rest are banned for various reasons."

            "Like?" Derek prompted.

            "Like... Eastern Ridgebacks have very strong, reliable neural nets that affect other supers," Stiles said. "Or Bavarian Flametongues, which spit liquid fire."

            Derek motioned with his chin toward Negira. "What's she?"

            Smiling, Stiles patted her scaled hide with a loud slap. "She's a Southern Ridgeback. Smaller than the Northern Ridgebacks, but nastier in a fight. Both of them are permissible game pieces, so you could have encountered either of them. Which," Stiles said with a little frown, "is why it's so unfortunate you're sensitive to the net."

            "Because they'll use that in a fight," Derek concluded. He couldn't imagine feeling that wash of terror in the arena pit- not and survive the encounter.

            Stiles tipped his head, his hands slowing to a halt on Negira's shoulder. She lifted her head but made no other protest as Stiles stared at Derek, brow furrowed. Light dawned in Stiles' eyes a moment later. "Oh, Derek, no," he said quietly, dipping his head a little to catch his gaze. "It just means I'll have to be more careful choosing your fights so you don't encounter them."

            Derek swallowed, unsure of what to make of that until he recalled that the goal was for him to make it through the arena alive. The thought felt much safer than supposing Stiles had any personal interest in his well being. He could tell Stiles was watching him for a reaction, waiting for him to digest the information, and so he shifted uncomfortably, motioning to Negira instead. “What… what’s that stuff?”

            Looking down, Stiles pulled his hands from her hide and spread his fingers, turning his hands back and forth as he looked at them as if seeing how filthy they were for the first time. “This?” he asked, holding up his blackened hands. When Derek nodded, he burst into a smile and pointed down to the large tin at his feet. “It’s an oil dye. My vet makes it for me. Negira’s skin heals pink instead of black, so the day before a match, I rub this into all her scars, to dye them black. It makes it harder for her opponent to see her move.”

            “She fights tomorrow?” Derek asked softly. He wondered if Negira ever thought about running away, if she ever wondered what her life would be like if she wasn’t forced to fight for it.

            Stiles studied his hands like the question had stumped him, and then dragged his gaze up to Derek. “Do you want to go?”

            Confused, Derek took a step back. “Go?” he said faintly.

            “To her match,” Stiles clarified, tipping his head a little. “It wouldn’t be hard to sneak you in, I think, not once anyway. Put you in some loose clothing, get Erica to mask your barcode, get you shaved around the face.”

            Derek’s nose wrinkled before he could stop himself. He’d had his face shaved before; the Argents had it done bi-weekly when the groomer visited. They hadn’t wanted any of his opponents to be able to grab hold of him by his hair. Stiles was nodding like it all made perfect sense, however, and Derek knew there was no escaping it.

            “You don’t have to go,” Stiles said, as if he’d read Derek’s mind. “I just thought maybe you’d like to see what exactly you’re agreeing to. I doubt you’ve even been inside a Div 1 arena. Have you?”

            “No,” Derek answered truthfully. “They took me to York once.”

            “New York?” Stiles echoed. “Huge arena, blue and yellow lights around the top?” He waved his hands, probably meaning to illustrate the web of neon lighting inside the arena. Derek barely remembered it through the black mesh of the arena cage, but he nodded. “Oh, nice. That’s one of the all-division arenas. There’s only six of those in the country.”

            Not having any clue at all what to say to that, Derek just dropped his gaze down a little, off to one side.

            Stiles cleared his throat, gaze dipping up and down Derek as if he knew how uncomfortable he’d made him. “You don’t _have_ to, of course.”

            “I’ll go,” Derek told him softly. He glanced up in time to catch Stiles’ smile.

            “Okay,” Stiles said with a quick nod. “I’ll ah… I’ll finish up here, and then meet you at the house? Unless…” He nodded toward the barn in question.

            Derek followed the look, and then curled forward a little, ducking his head. He had meant to talk to the others without being discovered, without alerting anyone that he’d been snooping. There was no good explanation for why he was out here, however. “I was going to talk to the others,” he mumbled, guilt zinging through him at the words.

            “Oh.” Stiles smoothed his hand over Negira’s hide absently. “Well, I’m sure they’re in there, if you still want to.”

            Vision snapping up, Derek stared openly at Stiles, not sure he could trust that it was just _okay_ like that. He wasn’t willing to continue pushing his luck; he’d had enough good fortune today. So instead, he shook his head, wiring his jaw shut as he backed up a step. “If it’s okay, I’ll be in my room.”

            “Waiting,” Stiles commented, and Derek thought it sounded a lot like a joke but he wasn’t sure. With a shake of his head and an amused smile, Stiles turned back to his task. “If you haven’t eaten, I’m sure there’s lunch in the kitchen. I was going to grab food when I headed in; I can grab enough for two if you don’t want to go there first.”

            He upturned the pitch of the last few words as if it were a question and Derek could find no demand in them. He grasped for some indication of what he was supposed to do, but it seemed the decision was his to make. It set his blood racing, leaving him dizzy. “I can,” he said, too quickly. “What do you _want_?”

            He hadn’t meant for it to sound quite so desperate, but Stiles didn’t appear to notice, continuing rubbing pitch oil into Negira’s hide. “Oh, whatever is there is fine, I’m sure. If you don’t want what’s been made, you can ask the cook for pretty much anything else.” He paused, glancing over. “You know, though, you may want to ask him for some cookies.”

            “Cookies?” Derek asked, tipping his head a little.

            Stiles flashed him a devious little smile before turning back to tend to Negira. “You’ll see.”

 

 

 

* * *

_Wardens in Division 3 are eligible_

_for monetary compensation from_

_the ARC and the arena house boards_

* * *

 

            Derek stared at the array of plates with various sorts of food piled onto them. The cook, an older man with thick glasses and a white beard to match his white robe, had told him that it was _turkey sandwiches and chips_ but Derek couldn’t tell which things were turkey and which things were sandwiches and which things were chips, and he couldn’t bring himself to ask, so he just passed along Stiles’ request for cookies instead. That had resulted in two covered containers filled with white liquid and another two plates of round disks of food that Derek supposed were _cookies_.

            “Here, boy,” the cook told him, setting down some form of even larger plate than the ones the food was on, this one with high sides. He began moving the little plates onto the bigger plates, until all of it fit. He snapped a lid onto all of it and presented it proudly to Derek. “There you are. You can carry it all wherever you want."

            Tentatively, Derek reached out, wrapping his fingers around the sturdy metal handles on either side of the traveling plate. He glanced to the cook, but there was no indication that he was doing it wrong, and so he inched forward until he could comfortably lift it off of the counter. It wasn’t quite as heavy as he expected, and he let out the breath he was holding when nothing toppled or broke.

            “Thank you,” he said quietly. It was still very unnerving to speak in the presence of humans.

            The journey to his bedroom took longer than it had previously due to how he crept through the halls, careful about tipping his meal too far to any side, careful not to wobble it enough to spill the drinks even though they had lids. When he finally arrived, his door was closed and it took him a few minutes of staring at it before he decided he could set the tray on the floor, open the door, and lift it again without getting in trouble. He wouldn’t tell Stiles he had set the food on the floor, no matter how clean it looked.

            Once he had very gently cleared the items off the surface of the desk in the corner, making sure they were tucked safely inside the empty drawers, he set the tray upon it. As he had no idea how to remove the lid and he didn’t want to break anything or risk toppling any of the contents, he just left it there. He crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, folded his hands in his lap, and let his mind clear.

            The soft tap on his door drew him out of his wandering thoughts a while later, and he raised his head, blinking to focus. Stiles poked his head through the open entryway, taking in the sight of Derek on the bed and then smiling. “May I come in?”

            Though he wasn’t sure why Stiles needed permission to enter any room in his own house, he nodded, staying put as Stiles nudged open the door enough to enter. Tucked under his arm was a small, flexible package, light blue and striped with white. Derek lifted his nose, but he couldn’t smell anything interesting inside of it and Stiles didn't volunteer any information about it.

            “I got food,” Derek offered quietly instead, skin flushing in embarrassment as he remembered he couldn’t open the container.

            “Excellent!” Stiles exclaimed, leaving the door open behind him. Something in Derek relaxed; he was not trapped. He watched Stiles throw a glance around the room, saw the moment he spotted the tray. “Oh, good thinking,” was Stiles’ only comment as he crossed to the food.

            Not wanting to miss how to work the tray, Derek craned his neck and watched as Stiles popped it open and set the lid upside down on the desk. For a moment, Stiles stared at the contents as if they were as foreign to him as they were to Derek, and then he lifted two of the plates, one with cookies and one with everything else, and turned around. Derek dropped his gaze, curling back down to safety. He would take his food when Stiles had moved away from the tray.

            “You didn’t eat,” Stiles said softly, and Derek’s breath caught when he found the edge of the one of the plates pressed gently against his sternum. He automatically lifted his hands to steady it, and Stiles let go, leaving him with the food. When he looked up, Stiles was selecting one of the cookies from the other plate, and cramming it into his mouth as he plopped down in the armchair near the door. “It won’t bite,” he assured Derek around his mouthful.

            Derek glanced between Stiles and the plate a couple of times before tentatively picking up one of the food stacks. He stared at it for a moment, screwing up his courage before asking: “Is this- what is this?”

            “It’s a turkey sandwich,” Stiles replied, tipping his head. “You’ve at least had bread before, haven’t you?”

            Derek shook his head and a small, pained noise dragged at the back of Stiles’ throat. “The Argents fed us nutrient paste,” Derek admitted, voice dropping low. He knew there had been other foods before that, but it was so long ago, such trivial knowledge unnecessary to survival, that he couldn't have named any of them.

            “Only?” Stiles asked incredulously.

            "Sometimes biscuits," Derek said, holding his fingers up to approximate the size of the small, crunchy disks. "They're very dry."

            “Oh, I am calling Lydia on that bullshit.” He made as if to get up but when Derek flinched, he stopped and sat back down. “Later,” he said slowly, eyes locked on Derek. “I’ll call later. Sandwiches.” He motioned toward the plate clutched in Derek’s hands. “That’s a sandwich. All sandwiches have bread on the top and bottom, and in between you can put almost anything you want. It looks like there’s turkey, which is the meat, probably mayonnaise, which is the white stuff, and cheese. The green stuff is lettuce, the red stuff is tomato.”

            Derek stared for just a moment in order to determine that there was nothing more to the explanation, and then took a bite. Flavors burst in his mouth, just like they had the night before, and Derek slitted his eyes almost closed, a throaty groan bubbling up unbidden from his chest. It was delicious.

            A quick motion from Stiles brought his attention back and he realized Stiles had scrambled to his feet, the plate of cookies clutched in both hands. “I ah-” He cleared his throat. “I just remembered that I have- I have a thing. To do,” he clarified as he hurriedly put the plate of cookies on the chair he had just vacated. “I’ll be back, just- you just enjoy… that. I’ll be back.”

            Holding very still, Derek watched Stiles leave, the door practically slamming in his wake. Even through the door he could hear Stiles’ heartbeat thrumming, his breathing just a little too fast. It sounded like panic. He finished chewing his bite and took another while he wondered what could have possibly been so urgent and important that it would send someone like _Stiles_ into a panic.

            When Stiles didn’t immediately return, Derek polished off the sandwich and clambered to his feet, intending to break into one of the cups of liquid. He caught the faint scent of something familiar, something which raised the hairs at the back of his neck as he rose, but couldn’t place it before it was gone.

            The lids on the cups were easy to remove, and Derek tasted the white liquid inside before deciding it was pretty good. He drank half of it before he realized there was a second plate of cookies, probably meant for him. With a quick glance to the still-closed door, he selected a small cookie and took a bite.

            It was _delicious_.

            It was sweet and a little savory at the same time and just a little chewy. His eyes rolled back for an instant before he followed Stiles’ earlier example and just crammed the entire cookie into his mouth. There were more, he could have this one and savor another after if he wanted. There was no one to stop him. He took a sip of his drink and as it mixed with the cookie, he found it only improved all of the flavors. He groaned, picking up the rest of the plate and taking it back with him to the bed to wait for Stiles.

            He managed to finish the rest of the sandwich and the crunchy things he assumed were the chips. They were salty, more so than he found he liked, but he finished them anyway because he wasn’t sure how often he would be given food here. They’d been fed twice a day at the Argent’s, which had always seemed reasonable, and he thought that there would be food here in the evening as well, but he wasn’t sure.

            He was nibbling on his third cookie when Stiles tapped tentatively on the door and cracked it open. “Still here?” he called.

            “Still here,” Derek affirmed. He was mildly surprised to find he was getting used to answering Stiles' statements as if they were questions. He watched Stiles push the door the rest of the way open and as soon as he was in view Derek could see the faint flush on his skin.

            “Sorry,” Stiles apologized in a bit of a rush. Derek wrinkled his nose as Stiles got closer; he smelled awful, like chemicals. “Do you still want to see the match? I caught Erica and asked if she could, you know, help out. She’ll be up after a bit. I thought we should probably get you shaved before then?”

            Derek’s gaze flicked to the small package Stiles had brought with him the first time and he realized what was inside- blades. Weapons. He swallowed, heart fluttering nervously. “Okay,” he breathed.

            “Okay,” Stiles agreed, moving to pick up the case. “Come on, then. I’ll- I’ll just show you how, and then you can try it, if you want.”

            Unable to see how it could make much of a difference, Derek shrugged and followed him into the spacious bathroom. The lights were a soft white, the tiles on the floor and walls just a shade darker. Stiles headed straight for the sink, laying open the case on the counter to one side and motioning Derek over. He pulled out a little tin that smelled of more chemicals, and then a round brush.

            “We have electric ones,” Stiles explained like it made any sort of sense to Derek. “But they’re pretty noisy.”

            If Stiles said anything else, it was lost in the buzzing in Derek’s ears, in the blood racing under his skin and the rasp of breath past his closing throat. He remembered the groomer, the restraints, the electrical current seizing his muscles, the whir of trimmers as they worked. He would have held still for them. He would have been _good_.

            He wasn’t sure how long it took, but he eventually he heard his name, soft and steady, and his vision began to focus. Away from him, Stiles stood perfectly still, hands up a little, fingers spread open so Derek could see he held nothing threatening. He had moved, but it was to give him a free path to the door rather than to block it. Derek took a halting step away from him anyway, all of the hairs on his body hackled as he stared, but Stiles made no move to touch him. He just watched, calmly.

            “It’s okay,” Stiles assured him, and that was the same voice that had called him back. “We don’t have to do this. I didn’t realize-”

            “Tell me,” Derek ground out on an exhale, eyes closing. When Stiles didn’t start talking, Derek looked over.

            Stiles twitched, as if realizing it was a question, and then he laid one hand over the contents of the small blue bag. “It’s just a straight razor. You sit on the toilet, or on the edge of the tub, and I just scrape it over your skin. No noise, no cuts.”

            “No currents,” Derek finished, his stomach flipping over at the thought.

            “Cur- oh!” Stiles breath whooshed out of him in disbelief. “Oh my- Derek, no. Of course not. Is that what- no, just, forget that. No, I would never do that to you. I will never do that to you, okay?”

            Stiles’ heart remained steady, even, and Derek forced himself to relax enough to nod. He swallowed, and straightened up, throwing a glance to the toilet and then back to Stiles. “Okay,” he said quietly. “Just you?”

            “Just me,” Stiles confirmed, remaining in place as Derek sidestepped to the toilet and took a seat on the closed lid. After a steadying breath, he nodded, and Stiles relaxed a little as well. “I’m going to lather this cream to use, so that the razor doesn’t leave a rash. It won’t hurt you.” There was an undercurrent of _I won’t hurt you_ that could hardly have been more clear to Derek.

            “Okay,” he agreed.

            Every movement was slow, methodical, and sure as Stiles filled a small bowl with water and then rubbed the brush through the bar in the tin. A soapy scent blossomed in the room. When he approached Derek it was with caution, his free hand raised. Though Derek’s heart still thrummed a little faster than usual, he tipped his head back, granting Stiles as much access as he would require.

            The brush was smooth and soft as Stiles patted it into his scraggly beard, wetting it with sudsy foam. Once his jaw was coated in it, Stiles traded the brush for a rectangular razor with a long handle. Their eyes met for a moment, and then Stiles moved around to Derek’s side, almost behind him, and gently tilted Derek’s head back.

            “Hold very still,” Stiles told him softly, the first order he’d given since Derek had arrived.

            Derek steeled himself for the cool burn of the razor slipping under his skin, but the next touch was light. The edge of the razor scraped along his throat sideways, taking a long stripe of hair with it, but no skin. He watched as Stiles leaned to the edge of the counter, rinsing the razor in the bowl of water. The second swipe was the same as the first, Stiles’ long fingers smoothing up the column of his neck in its wake. Derek was sure he could feel the bob of his throat as he swallowed; he could certainly feel the minute tremble in Stiles’ hands.

            It didn’t take long and they never traded off despite Stiles’ claim that he would teach Derek how to do it himself. Derek couldn’t bring himself to protest. Once he was over the initial panic, once he was sure that Stiles meant to honor his word not to harm him, he found his eyes sliding closed. He found himself enjoying the slide of Stiles’ fingers, warm and gentle on his skin, and the slight pull of the razor stripping away bits of his old life. Even the scent of the shaving foam, though strong, was not unpleasant.

            He didn’t realize he was enjoying it until it stopped, and Derek heard the clink of the razor hitting the edge of the little bowl a few times. Keeping his chin still up just in case, Derek cracked his eyes open in time to catch sight of Stiles tipping the bowl over the sink, just enough to let the water drain from it. Thick, black hair clung in clumps at the bottom. Derek resisted the urge to reach up and touch his face, choosing instead to watch as Stiles wet a small, square piece of cloth under warm water.

            “All done,” Stiles said, his amusement coloring his tone. He handed the cloth to Derek and stepped back, motioning toward the mirror. “Wipe your face and have a look.”

            Derek did as he was told, laving the damp cloth over his face and down his neck until the feel of Stiles’ touch no longer tingled on his skin. Then he clambered to his feet and looked in the mirror.

            It was a very nice job, very clean- much cleaner than the groomer had ever gotten it. There was only smooth, pale skin on his cheeks and jaw, down his throat. He tipped his chin up to get a better look, and caught Stiles staring at him with a little, lop-sided smile.

            “It looks good,” Derek told him, sure that he was waiting for some sort of response.

            A short puff of laughter escaped Stiles, who began tidying the contents of the shaving package. “Yeah,” he agreed softly, and Derek found he couldn’t place the odd tone.

 

* * *

_Matches must last a minimum_

_of five (5) standard minutes._

* * *

 

            The press of bodies all around Derek was unfamiliar, hot and fetid, full of human musk and old leather and moth-eaten cottons. On the arena floor he could smell it, of course, but it was faint, put to the back of his mind in favor of the fight. It was a background scent then, easy to ignore. Here, it was all around him and the sound of so many hearts so close, the murmur of human voices, filled in all that was normally empty space.

            They made it only a few yards into the crowd when Derek began to feel like he couldn’t breathe, sure that they were going to get caught. There were so many people, someone was bound to notice him. Any moment someone would turn around, see a collarless fighter in their midst. There would be a shout, and the long, electric rods would come out then. He’d be taken away from Stiles, maybe sent back to the Argents. Maybe destroyed. No amount of trimming and cleaning and redressing by Erica could hide him from all these prying eyes.

            A cool touch to his wrist startled him back to himself, sharpening his focus down to the slender fingers loosely encircling his wrist. He looked up and met Stiles’ amber-brown gaze.

            “Breathe,” Stiles soothed, and Derek realized he’d been gasping for breath so quickly it was making him dizzy. “First time at a Division 1 arena is a little overwhelming for everyone. It’ll be better when we get to our seats.”

            Derek forced himself to gulp down a couple of deep breaths before tugging his wrist gently from Stiles’ grasp. Immediately, Stiles released him, but Derek reached out, unwilling to let go of his anchor in this sea of bodies. When he touched his knuckles to Stiles’, the human hesitated, head tipping in question. Derek wasn’t sure exactly what he wanted, but relief poured through him when Stiles rotated his hand, fingers gliding over Derek’s palm before he laced their fingers together.

            Together they traveled through the crowd like that, Stiles tugging Derek along and Derek focusing all of his attention on the feel of Stiles’ heartbeat in his fingertips.

Right up until the moment Derek caught _her_ scent.

            He froze, Stiles jerking to a stop in front of him, their hands coming undone in the process. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew he heard Stiles call his name, but all he could see as he turned was the shock of blonde hair, the pale brown eyes, the smile that was far more predatory than anything he’d met in the pit. He knew that she’d seen them, or at least him, because she was slipping through the crowd with intent, even if she wasn’t looking at him.

            His breath stuck in his throat and before he could force his muscles to loosen enough to move she was there in front of him, her hand reaching out for his arm. Without thinking, he flinched backward, away from her, and then Stiles was between them, a beacon of white in a sea of darkness. That drew Kate up short, her eyes slitting into a glare.

            “Stilinski,” she greeted, and Derek realized that she _knew_ him. She _knew_ Stiles and that meant Stiles probably knew her as well. They had spoken, interacted. Derek felt cold all over, suddenly terrified that she would take this away from him as well, that she would be able to flex power over Stiles and crush all of the tentative hope Derek had dared let himself feel.

            “Argent,” Stiles returned, but his tone was cold and something in Derek uncoiled. Stiles wasn’t scared of her. “Been a long time since you went to a Div 1 fight.”

           Scowling, she threw a glance over Stiles’ shoulder and Derek could hear her heartbeat, familiar and anxiety-inducing, speed up a little. “I see you have a new _pet_. I was wondering where that one got off to.”

            Faster than Derek tracked, Stiles moved forward, right into Kate’s space, a vice-like grip on one of her arms. Derek hunched his shoulders, waiting for the retaliation, but Kate didn’t do anything save pull her face to the side, away from Stiles. If Derek hadn’t been a werewolf, he wouldn’t have heard Stiles’ next words.

            “You’re mistaken,” Stiles growled, almost right against Kate’s ear. “A very bad mistake, Miss Argent. I would suggest you find your seat quietly.”

            “If I don’t?” she hissed out with a grimace. Derek caught the little twitch she gave her arm and realized Stiles was holding it tightly enough to hurt.

            Derek heard the soft snort of laughter from Stiles, dry and derisive. “Test me, if you want,” he murmured. “I know how to win a fight out of the pit as well.”

            This time when she jerked her arm, Stiles let it go. Kate shot a scathing look to Derek, but she didn’t come for him again. Instead she straightened herself, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “I’m not here to fight you,” she spat, but Derek could hear the pattern of her lie in the beat of her heart.

            Stiles smiled. “Of course not. There are plenty of more profitable fights tonight.”

            Lips thinned in a frown, Kate turned away from them. Derek watched her weave back through the crowd, his throat dry with nerves, until Stiles turned around at last. Their eyes met and even in the dim lighting, Derek could see Stiles’ concern. It twisted his heart in his chest; humans were not supposed to look at him like that.

            “Are you okay?” Stiles breathed, knowing Derek could hear him over the rumble of the crowd.

            Nodding, Derek glanced down the path they had been taking, unable to force himself to answer aloud. When Stiles held out his hand, palm up, Derek folded his hands close to his chest, unable to take Stiles’ offer. He felt terrible for it, because he knew that Stiles wouldn’t hurt him, that Stiles could even protect him from Kate, but he couldn’t. Touch, any touch, that close to Kate stood all of the hairs on his body on end.

            “It’s okay,” Stiles said, and he slipped both of his hands into his pockets to prove he wasn’t going to do anything. “If you want to go, we can. There’s going to be a lot of people between here and our seats, and there are going to be people where we are sitting.”

            “I can do it,” Derek managed, words catching on his closed throat. He had never been this close to this many people before in his life, not even at the auction where the Argents had purchased him. “It’s fine.”

            Stiles nodded, though it was clear he didn’t believe Derek, and turned around to start heading in the direction they’d been going before Kate. “Let’s go then. We have a little time still.”

            Silently, Derek followed Stiles through the crowd, picking his steps as carefully as he could, avoiding as many of the people along the way as was possible. Stiles seemed to be bumping into more people than he had been before, which left a lot of people stepping aside in his wake. Derek didn’t notice right away, but he relaxed when he realized that Stiles was doing his best to clear a path for him.

            They reached what seemed like an arbitrary seating location and Stiles stepped aside, waving an arm to indicate that Derek should take a seat first. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, exactly, but the long, stone seats were not it. He supposed it made sense; he figured there were creatures in Division 1 fights which could breathe fire or spit venom or other things which might harm other material. Even so, the pale, grey stone was pocked with damage and worn with time.

            “They’re not the most comfortable,” Stiles said when Derek hesitated.

            “It’s not that,” Derek said, quick to reassure him. He took a seat to reinforce the idea, and looked tentatively at Stiles only to find him looking patiently back, a small smile twitching at his lips. Obviously he was awaiting further explanation, so Derek dropped his gaze to his hands where they peeked out of the long sleeved shirt he wore. “They’re damaged,” he said. “I thought maybe it’s not _safe_.”

            Taking a seat beside him, Stiles huffed a laugh. “It’s probably not,” he conceded. Derek chanced a look and caught Stiles staring down into the pit.

            Derek followed his gaze, down to the titanium fence which completely enclosed the arena pit. Vertigo clutched and scrabbled at Derek’s insides as he looked, mouth going dry. Vaguely he recalled the all-Division arena he’d been taken to, how much _bigger_ it was than the Division 3 arenas he normally attended. The floor was made of sand and Derek remembered how fine-grained it was. A dryad in the pens had once told him the sands in Division 1 pits were transported in from a dead valley, and that they were able to withstand super-high heat and to soak up blood like it was thirsty for it.

            It had felt like regular sand to Derek.

            Wet sand, so that they wouldn’t lose their footing, but sand all the same.

            It looked cleaner from their height. With his bare feet buried half an inch in it, Derek knew that the sand held scales and chips and flecks of bone, broken teeth and claws. He could smell it, even this far, though he doubted the humans could; it smelled of fear and spilled blood.

            Along the wall he could see there was a set of heavy-looking doors. Derek knew those; beyond them were the holding pens, where the fighters like him were expected to wait. When the fights began, those doors would slowly open, one by one, allowing the fighters into the pit in pairs. In Division 3, they would have to find their open door and return to it so the next fight could start; Derek wasn’t really sure what happened at the end of a Division 2 or 1 fight, when there was a body left to clear.

            The fighters talked about a lot of things in the pens… they didn’t talk about the bodies.

            “I’ll bet it looks different from up here,” Stiles said softly from beside him.

            Derek swallowed, nodding a little. “Smaller,” he said, glancing over. “Less dangerous.”

            Stiles didn’t say anything to that; Derek wasn’t sure there was anything to say. They were sitting where Stiles had sat - or at least someplace similar - and watched fight after fight, for years- watched Derek’s kind take their final breaths for entertainment. Derek wondered how many hundreds of creatures Stiles had seen die, watched murdered without raising a hand to stop it. He wondered how many of those deaths belonged to Stiles, how many he had sanctioned at the hands of his fighters.

            Derek wondered how many fighters had died to earn Stiles the money to be helping Derek now.

            There were no words suitable for any of his thoughts, and so Derek didn’t say anything either.

            It took a while before the stands were filled to what Derek thought seemed appropriate for what he always saw from below. The crowd was quieter than he expected it would be, but he thought maybe that was because he could never really hear it until the doors opened, and by then they were all shouting and cheering. That, more than anything, was how Derek realized the first Division 2 fight was about to start.

            When the first door opened, Derek realized that they were facing the wall with the humanoid fighters. A small creature wobbled out, hissing, and Derek had to squint to see that it was a hobgoblin. He didn’t feel too badly for it; they were usually nasty creatures that went feral at the scent of blood. They were decent in Division 3 fights, mostly because they struck very quickly, but Derek couldn’t imagine how one could survive a fight beyond first blood.

            He was proven right after a few moments when the shifter that barreled out of the pens below their seats hit the hobgoblin full-force. Derek knew the rules of the fight, how much trouble he’d gotten in the few times he’d ended a fight before the five-minute mark. Sure enough, the shifter vaulted over the hobgoblin, came away with blood dripping from her chest for only a moment before the wound closed up again.

            The damage was already done; the hobgoblin had gotten the scent of blood and it was licking its fingers, tracking the shifter for another strike.

            “I don’t know why they let them in anymore,” Stiles said from beside him, startling him. “This isn’t even a fight. That shifter knows it. We know it. The only one who doesn’t know it is the hob.”

            Derek licked his lips, grasping for something to say to that. He may not have felt badly for the hobgoblin, but it was still a life. The way Stiles said it made it seem more like a bad game, like someone was cheating, ruining the sport of it. Mouth dry, he watched Stiles observing the fight and wondered how much of his interest was for information and how much was for pleasure. He wondered if Stiles even knew the difference anymore.

            “It’s a slaughter,” Derek said eventually, dropping his gaze back to the arena. The shifter was toying with the hobgoblin, dancing close and taking small hits, the scent of blood blossoming in the air and driving the hobgoblin into a senseless fury. The crowd cheered every time, but it only turned Derek’s stomach.

           “Yeah,” Stiles agreed, voice tight, and Derek thought maybe he was wrong. Stiles no longer seemed to be enjoying it.

            They watched the rest of that fight, though Derek couldn’t watch the final moment. He listened to the clearing of the pit for that fight and the next, although he watched with a heavy heart when they hauled the third body, a wolf like himself, from the grounds. There was blood coating his skin, matting the hair of his partial shift. Derek was too far away to see, but he wondered if it soaked a scar into the sand like the stories said.

            There was a lull after the third fight, and Stiles explained in low tones that the Division 2 game pieces would be removed to their own transport vehicles and the corpses would be packaged to be taken home for disposal. Derek did his best not to make an obvious face at how simple it sounded falling from Stiles' lips, like they weren't even talking about lost lives or real people.

            When at last the lights in the pit brightened again, Stiles straightened and touched Derek's arm to draw his attention. "Negira's up."

            Derek straightened as well, craning his neck a little to see the open sands. Across from them, one of the heavy metal doors cranked open and a black dragon slithered from within the holding pen. The red on its belly showed Derek it wasn't Negira, even before Stiles told him.

            Before Derek could ask why it had been let out first, the sound of creaking gears filled the arena and the black and red dragon flared its wings, baring long, sharp teeth. In a flurry of black wings, Negira burst out, her scream filling the arena over a surge of excited shouting from the crowd. Derek clapped both hands over his ears and Stiles spared him a glance before he looked back to the pit.

            There was just enough room for Negira to get airborne in the pit, which was impressive considering how large her wingspan seemed when she spread her wings. Derek couldn't help the way he stared, wide-eyed, as she made a sharp turn and angled sidelong for the other dragon. It struck, whip-like, as she passed, but she only pulled her paws up to her chest and avoided the hit.

            "Good girl," Stiles whispered from beside Derek, his own eyes riveted on the fight. Derek could hear his heartbeat hammering, leaving him no doubt about whether or not Stiles cared what happened.

            "She didn't attack," Derek said, not sure if he meant it to be a question at all.

            "She won't yet," Stiles told him, not bothering to look over. "That's a midnight hookfang. They're venomous and very defensive, but not otherwise aggressive. That's why they let it out first, so it would feel like its territory was being invaded. She's testing its strike speed."

            Derek watched as she made another dive, this time straight at the hookfang, flaring her wings at the last second and shooting upward before it could close its jaws on her. The angry hiss it gave reached Derek a moment before it was drown out by the clang of Negira latching onto the fencing with all four paws. There was a faint clicking that Derek knew meant they were going to electrify the metal in a moment, but she used all of the time she had to scramble higher, high enough to be directly over her opponent.

            Holding his breath, Derek watched as she released the caging even as the buzz of electricity crackled over the din of the crowd. Wings folded, paws tucked, she dove straight for the hookfang from above. It watched her descent with its head thrown back and mouth wide open, ready.

            Her wings snapped open at the last second and her flanks were thrown forward as the air caught. Even as the hookfang struck, she lashed out with both feet, kicking it squarely in the side of the jaw and sending it sprawling with an undignified screech. Both of Derek's hands covered his mouth in horror as the hookfang spread midnight wings, scrabbling back onto its feet and jumping into the air after her.

            Negira dove down to the sand, tucking her wings up against her body and dipping one shoulder down so that she could roll. With a twist, she landed on her previously exposed back, all four paws now in the air, talons spread wide as the hookfang made a dive. It had obviously been expecting an easy strike but what it got was a face full of sharp claws.

            The scent of blood bloomed in the air as the hookfang veered, dropping clumsily to the ground a few meters away from her. Using one wing as a lever, Negira righted herself and was on the hookfang in an instant, one clawed paw batting at its face as she sunk her teeth into the base of its wing and ripped backward, shoving herself away from it with both hind feet, using its own body as a spring board.

            Its scream curdled the air and Derek shrunk into himself, eyes closing even as Stiles checked his watch for how long the fight had so far lasted. Derek didn't want to know. It had to be past time. He needed it to be over; even if that dragon managed to kill Negira, it would never fly again.

            When he heard the crowd gasp he pried his eyes open in time to see Negira launch herself back into the air as the hookfang threw itself at her, red eyes glowing with rage. Blood poured forth from its wing, the limb dragging uselessly in the sand. Its jaws closed on empty space the same moment another clang resounded through the arena and the clicking of the generator began again, ready to zap Negira from the fencing.

            As the metal buzzed with electricity, she released, free-fall diving toward the hookfang. Even in its rage, it recognized the repeat move and, unwilling to be batted aside again, it pulled its head to the side to avoid her strike. Derek knew, the instant before it happened, that it was the wrong move.

            She didn't open her wings this time, she opened her jaws, clamping them down around its neck as her paws came forward. Sickle claws sunk into its flesh on either side of her jaws as she hit the ground, dragging it down into the sand flailing and screaming. Its furious wail was cut short as she yanked her head up at the same time as she pulled down with both of her paws.

            Derek doubted any of the cheering, screeching humans heard the crack of bones, but he did. He felt sick.

            He watched as Negira unlocked her jaws, pulling her claws gingerly from the corpse at her feet. She threw a glance around the arena stands and Derek could pinpoint the exact second she laid eyes on Stiles in his white suit and relaxed. Slowly, she rocked back onto her haunches, her front paws glistening with a sheen of crimson liquid and her wings dropping open to spread wide as she threw her head back and loosed a triumphant roar, loud enough to rattle the fencing.

            Over the loud speaker, an woman pronounced Negira the winner and the volume of the crowd's yelling increased even further.

            Derek could barely breathe.

            There was no way he would survive a fight against a creature like that.

           

* * *

  _Wardens may not play a_

_Division 3 game piece more than_

_once in fourteen (14) days._

* * *

 

            Stiles tossed his wallet onto the edge of the bed and loosened his tie with one hand as he fished in his pants pocket for his phone. He had already made sure Negira was seen to by the vet on site at the arena as well as his own vet before returning her to her enclosure. His hands reeked of the balm used to rub her down after fights, a mixture they had worked on that helped to relax her muscles and give her a nice, deep sleep for the night. He had stayed seated against her shoulder until he heard her heartbeat even out in sleep.

            Derek had disappeared the moment Stiles had pulled the car to a stop at the manor, and Stiles hadn't seen him since. None of the handlers knew where he'd disappeared to, either. Stiles wasn't ready to deal with that particular issue or to push Derek into dealing with anything. He was fairly confident that Derek wasn't going to make a run for it, so it could wait until after Stiles had showered.

            Leaving his suit folded in half on the bed, Stiles disappeared to the attached bathroom. He knew by the time he got back the suit would be gone, taken to be cleaned and returned the next day. That was one of the luxuries he was forever grateful for- not having to deal with clothing that reeked of the pit, of sweat and crowds.

           He stayed longer in the shower than he should have, letting the hot water sluice over his skin, warm him up, relax him. Vaguely he heard the sound of his phone going off, but he ignored it. There were only a couple of people who would bother calling him at night after a match, and all of them were a headache he didn't want to interrupt his shower to deal with.

            When he finally did emerge, steam roiling out around him as he wrapped a towel around his waist and plodded across the room to the bed, he had four missed calls and an angry text message from Lydia telling him to call her back.

            Sighing, he plopped down on the edge of the bed and tapped the little green phone next to her name on the message, watching the screen until it began to tick numbers. She picked up before the first ring had even finished. Stiles knew better than to press the phone to his ear right away and, sure enough, her voice scraped out of the phone, tinny and angry.

            "Did you bring that fighter to today's match, Stiles?" she accused, far louder than was appropriate for the hour. When he didn't immediately respond, she growled: "Did you?"

            "I might have," he ventured, putting the phone a little closer to his ear now that the initial outburst was over. "Why?"

            "Because _Kate_ showed up at _my office_ an hour ago demanding to know why _you_ had _her_ fighter," Lydia snapped. "That paperwork's not even finished being filed!"

            "So tell her it is and finish it," Stiles groaned, flopping back on the bed.

            "Of course I'm going to finish it, I have to now!" she told him, but he could already hear the angry being replaced by exasperation. "It's just- you can't just- You _know better_ , Stiles. You _know_ better. You can't take a fighter to a match like he's just a human. Someone could have figured it out. She could have told anyone, and you wouldn't be able to help Scott anymore."

            "She's not going to tell," Stiles assured Lydia. "She knows that's more trouble than it's worth."

            "She was pretty pissed," Lydia said. Stiles heard her shifting and figured she was still at her office. He wondered if she had work or if she was just hiding out for the evening. "Which I'm not surprised about, all things considered. We should have told her."

            "Why?" Stiles asked, something inside of him coiling up tight as he remembered the way Derek had reacted to Kate. There was something going on that Derek hadn't told him. "She fought him, but he wasn't technically hers. All the Argent pieces belong to Gerard, and you had his permission."

            "Yeah, well she's really sore about it, so watch your back," Lydia told him tiredly. "I smoothed it over some, but I'm in hot water over it because you couldn't control yourself."

            "I had to take him, Lydia," Stiles reasoned patiently. "He can't walk into this blind or he'll just end up dead."

            "I know," she conceded. "The videos don't do it justice. But, just so you know, you're hiring me when Kate figures out how to boot me."

            "They're not going to boot you," Stiles chuckled. "Chris knows better than that. You're the best. You're the reason they have everything they do on only Div 3 fighting. Trust me, if I thought I could steal you from them, I would."

            "And risk losing Danny? You'd never," she quipped, and he could hear she was feeling a little better. "Look, just... don't do anything so stupid again, okay? No more watching fights with your shiny new toy."

            Stiles stifled his sigh. "He's not a toy. But I won't take him in again."

            "Okay." She breathed out over the phone and Stiles pulled it away from his ear a little with a smile. "Thank you. I don't need you getting caught. You don't need you getting caught, either."

            "You're right," Stiles agreed again. "Is everything else okay?"

            "You can call _everything else_ yourself and ask," she told him, her grin seeping into her tone. "You know Scott's still up."

            "I know," Stiles said, glancing at the clock. It wasn't quite too late to call, but he was hoping to leave it until tomorrow. He sighed and closed his eyes. "I'll call. Go home, Lydia. Get some sleep."

            He could picture her little scowl, but she bid him goodnight and the line clicked dead in his hand. He took a few deep breaths, letting himself consider everything that Lydia had said about Kate, even though he knew she wouldn't cause him further trouble. It was something to keep an eye on anyway.

            Sitting up, he picked Scott's phone number from his contact list and put the phone to his ear as it began to ring.

 

* * *

_Non-human creatures of human origin_

_may no longer qualify as game pieces_

* * *

 

            Derek heard the footsteps long before they reached his door, but he couldn't bring himself to get up from where he lay on the bed. He hadn't even bothered trying to get under the mass of covers, knowing already that he would just lay there uselessly for an hour or two before deciding it was still more comforting to curl up underneath the plush bed. It did, however, feel nice to lay very still and stare at the ceiling and let his mind go blank for a while, devoid of the scent of blood and the haunting death scream of Negira's kill.

            Perhaps the worst part of the entire experience was seeing first-hand how she _toyed_ with the other dragon. A fifteen-foot, venomous dragon with a wingspan as large as her own, just as deadly and horrific as she was, and she had _teased_ it. She had killed it at the first opportunity presented, without so much as a scratch to her hide.

            He couldn't fight something like that.

            He couldn't even fight something like the poor creature she had destroyed.

            The soft knock on the door dragged Derek far enough out of his downward mental spiral that he managed to sit up. For a moment he debated answering at all, wondering if Stiles would just walk away again if he stayed silent or if he would enter thinking Derek was gone. He didn't know if humans found it acceptable to trespass into the territory of another if the other was absent.

            "Derek?" Stiles called, soft and imploring.

            "Yeah," Derek responded before he could stop himself. "Sorry, come in."

            With a click, the door opened and Stiles poked his head around the edge, giving the room a quick scan and then giving Derek a once-over as well. "Are you okay?"

            "I'm alive," Derek said. He wasn't sure he was okay but he didn't want to express that weakness. Stiles' sympathetic smile said he knew anyway.

            Closing the door behind him, Stiles entered and then leaned against the wall, his hands behind his back. "That's not really the same thing, but I'll take it. I just wanted to see if you- if you're all right. With going forward."

            "To fights like that," Derek finished for him.

            "That's where this ends up," Stiles agreed. "I won't put you into a fight with a ridgeback just in case, but there are plenty of other supers out there able to do just as much damage as Negira can."

            "You think I can't do it," Derek said plainly, blanching a little.

            "I think I need to know if you _want_ to," Stiles corrected. "It's dangerous. It'll require a lot of training."

            "But you'd get me that training, before I go in," Derek prompted, and Stiles nodded in return.

            "Of course," Stiles assured him. "We'll train you practically on everything I have here and theoretically on the common Div 1 supers I don't have here. But Derek," he said, waiting until Derek looked up to meet his gaze. "There's a good chance you die on a case of bad luck alone, regardless of skill."

            "I know," Derek said softly. "But this is how we get out, right? I'd rather die trying to reach freedom than give up at gate's open."

            "Okay." Stiles let out a heavy breath and shouldered away from the wall. "I called my friend Scott today, to let him know that you were here and that you'd agreed to help. He's kind of... well, the reason I'm doing this. He was bitten by a werewolf a few years ago."

            Derek's brows furrowed. He didn't know much about bitten werewolves, only that he knew they existed but had never seen one in the pit before, or in the pens. He had always assumed they were rare because humans were so careful, so vicious in keeping their distance, or because they culled anyone that was bitten.

            "Is he- he's not a fighter." He couldn't be a fighter, not if Stiles had called him.

            "No," Stiles agreed. "They outlawed bitten werewolves from Arena a long time ago, before I even started, as part of a reform that aimed to protect handlers and wardens mostly. You know, someone starts off as a human and gets an _illness_ they aren't assumed to be no longer human. The government passed legislation which decreed that a human bitten by a werewolf would be considered _diseased_ instead."

            "There are bitten wolves that fight," Derek said softly. Even if he had never seen them, he'd heard stories.

            "A few- the ones they grandfathered in," Stiles told him. "Scott was bitten after that. He's working with the group that negotiated our deal with the ARC."

            Derek nodded, just taking that information at face value despite his questions. He wondered how many other humans were involved in this, how many he would let down if he backed out or lost, on top of the supers who would never get a chance at freedom. It made his stomach knot up, which only served to remind him that he'd felt too sick over the entire issue to eat today.

            "There's... one more thing," Stiles hedged and when Derek glanced up at him again Stiles was staring steadily back. His could hear Stiles' heart beat a little quicker, nervous. "I need to know what happened with Kate."

            He couldn't stop the flinch, or the sick feeling when Stiles let out his breath like he was disappointed. Derek scraped for something to say, an excuse, a reassurance that he could do this despite anything that had happened, but words failed him. He found he didn't want to tell Stiles that he was starting all of this with a broken tool; he didn't want to be set aside because he couldn't forget Kate or anything she had done.

            "It's okay." Stiles' voice filtered in through the thrumming of blood past Derek's ears, calm and gentle. "We don't need to talk about it this second, but I need to know before we get too far into this, because she's not going to take me going over her head for all of this lightly. I have to know how much trouble to expect from her before we actually step into Division 2 and she realizes something bigger is going on."

            All he could do was nod, so he did.

 

* * *

_Wardens may choose to replace_

_Arena handlers with personal handlers_

_at their own risk._

* * *

 

            "Didn't think you'd make it out here alone."

            The voice was silky, almost oily, audible even though Derek couldn't see the speaker. He stepped fully into the barn and tugged the door shut behind him. Hydraulics hissed, locking it into place. Stiles had given him the code to get out again, so he wasn't worried. Above him, lights flickered on, despite the morning sunlight pouring in through the windows in the enclosures on either side of the hall.

            "I had some free time," Derek said dryly, leaning a little to look into the humanoid enclosures. He could smell the other wolves, but Kali was absent from her lawn chair and the other two enclosures were just as empty as they had been the day Derek arrived.

            "A regular comedian," Deucalion said, smiling as he leaned against one of the supports along the porch of the false house. Derek thought he might have preferred his pen at the Argent's- at least it told no lies, didn't mock his incarceration with the illusion of freedom. "I can hear all those questions buzzing around that skull of yours. Speak up, boy. Here to ask about your mother?"

            "No," Derek said honestly, coming to a stop in front of Deucalion's pen. He swallowed thickly when he saw the damaged white-red scars in the other wolf's eyes and realized he was blind. "I came to ask about Stiles."

            A grin smoothed onto Deucalion's face. "Ah," he said simply. "Our little savior."

            "You don't think so," Derek said. He wasn't really asking. Deucalion's tone made it very clear what he thought of the situation. "You know what he's offering?"

            "I know," Deucalion confirmed, one long finger tracing a pattern around the top of the stick in his hand. "He made all of us the same offer."

            "You didn't take it." Of course he hadn't, and they both knew it, but Derek wanted to know _why_. Someone died every match, regardless of what division Deucalion fought in and it would always be a fight for his own life. All around them stood the facilities to train him to fight the other creatures, to learn whatever he needed to fight his way out the same way Derek now planned. Getting out wouldn't be that much of a difference for Deucalion.

            "He took you to see her fight, didn't he? The ridgeback?" Deucalion asked. Derek nodded before he remembered Deucalion couldn't see.

            "Yes," he confirmed. "I saw a fight today."

            "We see them from the holding pens, when we go to matches," Deucalion said. "One fight won't have done it justice. That one, she's one of the best, but there are others just as vicious. You step into a Division 1 pit often enough, one of them will get you."

            Derek swallowed, heart picking up a little, his fingers tingling with anxiety. "You think I'm stupid for agreeing."

            "I think you should stop," Deucalion corrected. The stick tapped against the ground twice and then he caught it and tipped his head. "How many wardens have you had since the fire?"

            "Only one," Derek said. Just Kate, he added silently, mouth going dry.

            "Were they better or worse than what you've got here?" Deucalion asked. "If you had to pick here or there, even knowing you'll probably die here, where would you go?"

            "Here," Derek answered instantly. There was no choice. He would rather die than go back to Kate.

            "Then it seems to me that you made at least one good choice by coming here," he said, tapping his cane again. "But that human won't make you leave again, even if you stop. He also knows you won't stop, not while he's got your little sister under one paw."

            Derek's blood ran cold at the mention of Cora. "What do you mean?"

            Deucalion simply shrugged. "There's not a lot in this world that matters to a fighter, Derek. It's all fighting, sleeping, eating, waiting. Sometimes, we get something else in life, like Ethan and Aiden two pens down... family. Yours was taken from you once. Don't think the human doesn't know which buttons it pushes for you to see her alive and well."

            Blanching, Derek drew away from the bars, his heart picking up with every word. "You think he's using her to manipulate me?"

           Taking a deep breath and letting it out slow, Deucalion twitched his cane forward and descended the two small steps. Derek held his ground as Deucalion crossed to him and stopped just shy of the bars. "Tell me, Mr. Hale: in all the world you've seen and heard of, what seems the more likely scenario? That you're being used for something the human wants without your knowledge, or that a wealthy warden with a menagerie full of prime fighters has decided to make you his personal charity case?"

            A heavy weight settled in Derek's stomach as Deucalion's question sunk in its claws. He hadn't said anything Derek hadn't already dared to wonder on his own, but hearing someone else speak the words aloud seemed only to validate the fear, give it root. It was the same doubt Derek had felt seeing Stiles standing on the other side of the pen fencing, so starkly different than anything else in Derek's world, offering him something which seemed too good to be true.

            Of course it was, it always was.

            Despite that Deucalion couldn't see him, couldn't read his expression, Derek got the distinct impression that he knew exactly what Derek was thinking. "Ah, the truth hurts," he said softly. The sound of the top of his cane clicking on the bars gave a sudden sharpness to Derek's attention and he looked up to meet Deucalion's eyes.

            "You can't know," Derek breathed. Faced with the prospect of the last few days being a lie, Derek found he _wanted_ to believe in Stiles.

            "Can't I?" Deucalion said, humming with wonder. He gave a careless shrug. "I don't have to know, Derek. Ask him yourself, and listen to what his heart tells you about it. Ask him about your sister. Even better, ask him about your mother."

            "My mother?" Derek echoed. "She doesn't have anything to do with this. She died in the facility fire fifteen years ago."

            Deucalion snorted derisively, rapping his cane against the bars again before turning to head back to the porch. "A fire?" he scoffed. "It wasn't a building fire that took Talia from this world." Derek couldn't place the odd note in Deucalion's voice, but he thought it sounded... sad.

            "Then what?" he called, but Deucalion was already up the steps and opening the small door into the back part of the pen. "Deucalion!"

            "Ask him yourself, pup," Deucalion called over his shoulder. He paused, turning slightly, just enough for Derek to see the sly smile on the edge of his lips. "And let me know what he says, will you? I'd be _fascinated_ to hear what excuse he gives you."

            The click of the door shutting echoed up and down the hallway, and once again Derek was alone. For a few moments he stood there, hoping maybe Deucalion would return, or that he could see Derek standing there and it might get awkward, but such was not his luck. He listened to Deucalion shifting around inside the pen, probably having a seat, and then there was silence from within.

            Frustrated, he banged his palm flat against the bars and shoved away from the pen. Across the hall, one of the other pens held a young-looking alpha, peering out from the cracked front door. Derek bared his teeth angrily at him, but the guy just blinked slowly at him, unimpressed. It wasn't worth the argument, so Derek just let himself out, listening to the hydraulics hiss and pump behind him, sealing in the other fighters.

            He needed to talk to Stiles.

            Abandoning pretense, Derek dropped to all fours, letting his beta shift take over, bones and flesh morphing into something new. It felt good, felt _free_ , to transform without the collar biting into his skin, reminding him that he was a prisoner. For a moment he considered just taking off, seeing how far he could get before someone picked him up and put him back on the starting line. He wondered if they would just dispose of him. He wondered if they would make Stiles foot the bill to dispose of his carcass, since his barcode read _Property of Stiles_ now.

            Instead, Derek pointed his nose toward the manor and let his long, loping gait carry him across the open grass between the barn and the house. It was a good ten minute stroll between the two, but it took him less than half that while shifted. The stretch and burn of his muscles as he covered the ground helped to relax him, enough that when he rounded the corner of the building and practically stumbled over the top of the two-person picnic, he didn't panic.

            "Derek?" came Cora's voice as he vaulted over and around them, skidding to a stop. "Derek!"

            "Cora?" Derek asked, willing his chest to stop heaving, his heartbeat to calm from the run. He'd pushed himself harder than he'd meant to. "What are-"

            He froze, voice catching in his throat at the sight of the other picnicker. It was one of the handlers whose name he couldn't recall. The boy was sitting cross-legged on the plush blanket laid over the grass, a book open in his lap and various finger foods spread out around them. His blue eyes were twitching between Cora and Derek but his stance was relaxed; Derek's sudden and shifted appearance didn't seem to worry him.

            "Lunch," Cora said, placing herself between Derek and the handler. She held up one hand and Derek dragged his gaze away from the human to focus on her. "We're eating lunch, if you want to join us."

            Something within Derek coiled too tightly at the thought of Cora so casually sitting down to eat with a handler. Derek's skin didn't - couldn't - bear the marks of the countless times in the arena holding pens that he'd been hit by the zap-sticks, tines pressed to his skin until it sizzled, until he was yowling, but that didn't mean he didn't remember. He's lost track of how many taunts and jeers and horrible things had been said to him by handlers who assumed he was a dumb animal. She shouldn't have been anywhere near any of them, much less alone.

            "Derek," Cora said firmly, drawing his attention firmly to her. When he met her gaze, she raised both eyebrows. "There's nothing to fight here. Put away your claws."

            The feeling of his pulse racing under his skin subsided a little at the words and he realized that he was breathing too heavily. Slowly, he let his features soften, claws and fangs pulling in until he was back to looking human.

            "There you go," Cora said, voice gentling. "Where were you going in such a rush? Is everything okay?"

            His gaze slipped sideways, falling upon the handler still seated on the blanket, observing them with an air of curiosity. He didn't want to tell Cora about his conversation with Deucalion in front of a handler. He wasn't sure he wanted to tell her at all, not when she seemed so happy here. If they really were being used, he wanted her to have that happiness for as long as possible.

            "I don't- nowhere," he lied, even though he knew she could hear the uptick of his heart. "I was just running."

            Her face crinkled in a smile. "Feels good, doesn't it?" She shook her head, taking a step back so she was no longer between him and the handler. "The first time I got free rein here-" Her eyes rolled back and she made a little, pleased noise at the back of her throat. "I could never go back, not after that."

            Guilt swept cold through Derek and he ducked his head a little, dropping his eyes and forcing himself to straighten up slightly. She was happy here. Whatever else Stiles was responsible for, he was responsible for this- for the smile on her face, for the beating of her heart, strong and steady so close to him. Derek wasn't sure there was a price he wouldn't pay for that.

            Cora seemed to understand, because she reached out and laid her hand on his shoulder, warm and reassuring. "Do you want some lunch? We have more than enough."

            Derek glanced down at the bowl of fruit, at the sandwiches and the bowl of lumpy, gooey objects he couldn't identify. There were cookies, too, though they were not the same kind as he'd had before. It all looked delicious, and Derek reminded himself that excellent food was yet another privilege Stiles had given to them.

            "Okay," he said weakly, letting out his breath.

            Smiling, she took the couple of steps to the blanket and flopped down to her knees, reaching out to pass Derek one of the cookies he'd been eyeing. "This is Isaac, by the way," she told him conversationally, not making a fuss when Derek didn't actually sit. "He's been teaching me how to read."

            Isaac held up the book in his hand. "Hey," he greeted quietly. "Your sister's really great. She learned the whole alphabet in a day. If you wanted to learn, I bet she could teach you now."

           "I could," Cora confirmed, delighted. She looked up, hopeful. "Do you want to hear me read? I- I do better out loud. It's easier to sound it out."

            He looked between the two of them, torn between going to demand answers from Stiles and spending time with his little sister. He clutched the cookie in both hands as if it could anchor him, but in the end there wasn't any real decision to be made.

            "I would love to hear you read," he murmured, sinking down beside Cora.

            Without a word, she wriggled closer and he lifted his arm to give her room to do whatever she was doing. What she was doing, he found, was crowding into his side, leaning one shoulder against him, and dragging the book from Isaac's grasp and into her lap. Hesitantly, he lowered his arm, laying his palm flat on the ground and leaning back to ensure she had support.

            His eyes met Isaac's over the top of her head as she began to read, and Isaac smiled tentatively at him, the sort of smile that flickered to life. As Derek turned his attention back to his sister, he thought maybe he'd been wrong to believe Deucalion. There was no malice in Isaac's expression, no scent of ill intent anywhere on him.

            Belly heavy with nerves, Derek nuzzled his nose into Cora's hair and closed his eyes, letting her scent and voice wash over him.

           

* * *

_If a game piece fails to yield the match_

_after a win has been declared,_

_the piece’s warden shall be_ _fined_

* * *

 

            It was dark by the time Derek reached Stiles' room. Beyond the door he could hear Stiles' heartbeat, the soft scratch of his writing utensil against paper. For a while he just stood outside the door, listening to the thump-thump of life, trying to decide what exactly he was going to say.

            He wasn't sure he should even have been outside the door at all, whether or not he was allowed to question Stiles' motives. A month ago, a week ago, he would have known where he stood. It wouldn't have mattered what plans his warden had; he would have been expected, _required_ even, to go along with it without complaint. Disobedience would have been met with a zap stick at the very least; habitual disobedience potentially lead to being culled.

            However much he'd been just an animal to the Argents, a creature to be disciplined, at least he'd known exactly where he stood.

            Then Stiles had walked into his kennel and turned everything Derek had known on its head. He had taken away his collar and given him clothing, returned to him a piece of his family and told him he could speak around humans as he'd never been allowed to do. There was good food, a soft bed, and the freedom to go where he pleased, feel the sun on his skin, the wind in his face, the grass beneath his feet.

            All Derek could wonder was what _right_ Stiles had to step into Derek's world and undo his entire foundation.

            Taking a deep breath, he tapped lightly on the door with two fingers. He'd heard humans knock on doors before but couldn't recall with _what_. His fingers didn't seem loud enough so he curled his fingers into a fist and rapped sharply on the wood of the door with his knuckles.

            Inside, a chair scraped across the floor and a moment later Stiles drew open the door. The scent of the human flooded out around Derek and he only just managed to resist the temptation to close his eyes, breathe it in, and relax. He knew he should be concerned about how quickly that had become his gut reaction, but despite anything Deucalion had said, Stiles had given him no reason to fear him.

            "Derek," Stiles greeted, surprise coloring his tone. "Are you okay?"

            Once again guilt settled in his gut at the question. "Yes," he answered, not sure if it was a lie or not. "I didn't mean to disturb you."

            "You're not," Stiles said with a soft smile, drawing open the door to his room to give Derek access if he wanted. "I was just filling out paperwork. For your next fight, actually. You'll need to see Dr. Deaton before we go so he can give you a clean bill of health."

            "The vet?" Derek asked, very nearly forgetting the reason he was here in the first place. "Here?"

            Of all the humans Derek had ever interacted with over the years, the vets were the only ones he didn't fear. They were the only ones with gentle touches and soft hands, who spoke soothingly to him before and after fights. Somewhere in the back of his mind he had known he would have to see a vet, a different one than the one the Argents saw, but he hadn't thought closely on it.

            "On site, yeah," Stiles confirmed. "We can do that tomorrow morning, if that's okay with you. Doesn't matter when we go, he'll sign the ticket before the fight as long as you don't report anything off. There isn't anything... _off_ , is there?"

            Derek might have found it easier to ask the questions he needed if Stiles didn't seem so _concerned._ "I'm fine," he said.

            "Really?" Stiles asked, raising an eyebrow. "Because you look like you're about to puke. Do you want to come sit down?"

            "No," Derek said, but he moved into the room anyway so that he couldn't bolt. Stiles didn't seem to mind, allowing him past without moving and leaving the door open behind him. A few steps into the room, Derek trailed to a stop and took a breath to steady himself. "I spoke to Deucalion."

            "Ah," Stiles said, like everything made sense. "And what did he have to say?"

            "He doesn't trust you," Derek admitted, his shoulders hunching automatically as he glanced over from under his lashes. There were no zap sticks here- only Stiles, watching him patiently. "He said that..." Derek brow furrowed as he searched for the right words. When he spoke it was rushed, barely a breath, "Why do you have my sister, Stiles? How did she end up here?"

            The click of Stiles' throat as he swallowed was too loud in the silence that followed the question, but Stiles was nodding slowly. "Okay. I was at a stock auction," he said, just like that, like he'd been out to buy a choice cut of meat. A tiny tongue of ire licked at Derek's insides. "None of the supers here wanted to go through Division 1, even if it meant freedom."

            "So you were going to _purchase_ someone new to do it for you," Derek interjected.

            "Something to that effect." Stiles' heart beat even and steady. "I won't apologize for that, Derek," he added, as if he could read Derek's mind. "I wouldn't have either of you here if I hadn't done that."

            Scowling, Derek closed his eyes, reining in his temper. Stiles was right, of course. It was horrible that he had been out purchasing people as if they were items, but it would have been worse - at least for Derek and Cora - if he hadn't. He couldn't be bitter about that. "How did you... pick _her_?"

            "Lydia and I had been looking into bloodlines," Stiles explained slowly, watching him for a reaction. "We'd tracked down the Hale line, and found two survivors on record, in different places."

            "Me and my sister," Derek guessed.

            "Actually, your sister and your uncle," Stiles corrected, holding up both hands when Derek rounded on him in surprise. "Your uncle had gone feral by the time we got to him. He still fights in Division 2 as far as I know."

            Feral.

            Derek knew the term. He had never personally encountered a feral fighter, but he knew it was a danger in the higher divisions. There was only so much killing one person could do, only so much abuse one person could take, before they lost hold of whatever sanity they might have had. There was a danger of becoming wild, of becoming exactly what the humans believed them to be: animals. Ferals were the exceptions amongst the supers that the humans used to prove their rule.

            "And Cora?" Derek pressed.

            Stiles took a slow breath, eyes flickering over Derek as if judging how he would react. "There are two kinds of game pieces, Derek. Wild caught ones brought in by hunters, and captive bred ones like you. Breeding facilities are extremely restricted, controlled and run completely by the ARC. When we tracked her down... that's where she was- in a breeding facility in North Carolina."

            "She was at an auction," Derek said, searching Stiles' amber-brown eyes for any sign of a lie. "You said so."

            "She was. Apparently your sister is a little spitfire," Stiles told him. "She clawed up two wolves so badly they refused to go near her again. After she killed one of their prized breeders, she went to auction as a fighter. If they couldn't sell her, they were going to cull her."

            Throat tight with disgust, Derek sucked in a breath. "Did they- did she ever-"

            "No," Stiles assured him before he could manage to choke out the question. "When we asked, she said none of them managed to-" Stiles clamped his jaw shut and shook his head, looking away from Derek. His heart picked up and Derek could practically _smell_ the anger roiling off of him before he settled, the tension leeching from him until he could speak. "She wasn't raped, Derek. And she's been safe here."

            "Would you have fought her?" he asked quietly. "If you hadn't found me?"

            "Yes," Stiles answered immediately. "If she had consented. _Only_ if she consented."

            It was on the tip of his tongue to make Stiles swear it, but he knew there was no lie in the words. Even if he hadn't been able to hear Stiles' heartbeat, he would have known. "And if I quit?" he asked, catching Stiles' gaze when he looked back.

            "I would ask her," Stiles said. "I don't think she would say yes."

            Derek swallowed, his next question lodged like lead in his belly. Stiles let him take his time, stood by in silence. "And if I asked you not to ask her? If I-"

            "I wouldn't," Stiles said, before Derek could even finish. Relief rushed through Derek so quickly it made him dizzy. "I wouldn't ask her, if you asked me not to. But I think it should be her decision, not yours. She's had enough control taken from her already."

            Shame chased at the heels of his relief and he ducked his head a little, face flushing. "I'm not quitting," he said, because he wasn't sure he could say he wouldn't ask. He wanted to protect her, if there was any chance he could.

            "I know," Stiles assured him. Then he tipped his head, brow furrowing. "Is that what all of this is about? You're worried for your sister?"

            Derek let out a small puff of breath, running a hand over his hair. "I'm worried about a lot of things," he admitted, looking over. "Deucalion said that- that you knew about my mom."

            "Only what's public knowledge," Stiles told him. "She was a famous Division 1 game piece from Hale Breeding Company and she died the day it burned to the ground, though some of her bloodline was rescued. But Derek," he said, waiting until Derek met his eyes. "That was fifteen years ago. I was only seven. I know I must have watched some of her matches on the television, but I don't remember them. I'm sorry."

            "He said she didn't die in the fire," Derek said, ignoring the rest of what Stiles had said. He wasn't willing to process that Stiles had watched his mother fighting for her life in the pit.

            Stiles' brow crinkled at that and he drew back a little. "How would he know?" Stiles scoffed. Then he shook his head, and held up one hand to stop any explanation Derek might have possibly offered. "It doesn't matter. Um- look, I'll check into it, okay? There's bound to be property records I can dig up that show what was lost in the fire, at the very least. If there's more to know, I'll find it. Deal?"

            Derek didn't respond, and they were quiet together for a long moment. Eventually, Stiles moved a little closer, close enough to brush his knuckles against Derek's shoulder to draw his attention. The gesture was soothing, soft and warm.

            "If you think something else happened, or if Deucalion does, I'll do everything I can to find out, okay?" he said, low and easy. The knot in Derek's stomach loosened some. "Until I can prove one way or another, I'll keep looking for you. Deal?"

            "Okay," Derek agreed weakly at last, all of the fight from earlier gone out of him. Deucalion had seemed so _certain_ that Stiles was manipulating him, had sounded so _sure_ of it that Derek had been sure, too. Standing here in front of Stiles, listening to his words and his heart, Derek found nothing but sincerity.

            "Get some sleep," Stiles told him, stepping aside so he had a clear path to the exit. "I'll come get you to see Doc tomorrow morning."

            At the doorway, Derek hesitated, turning back to see Stiles over his shoulder. "Thanks," he managed. He wasn't sure exactly what he was grateful for, but he thought the smile on Stiles' face said he already knew.

 

* * *

_All game pieces must be healthy_

_and up-to-date on vaccinations_

_at the time of the match_

* * *

 

            Derek wasn't sure what he had been expecting when Stiles told him they would go to see the vet. He'd said it was _on site_ but Derek hadn't realized there was actually a medical facility housed within the squat little building on the other side of the road. The brick around the outside was burnished red, fringed in grey, all of it clean and very precise. Although he couldn't read the sign over the top of it, he recognized the medical symbol at the end of the name - an eastern dragon coiled around a wooden staff - which meant the clinic serviced supernatural creatures as well as the mundane.

            The inside was as clean as the outside, but there was no real waiting room to speak of like there was at the arena clinics. Most of the main room was a freight elevator that opened to the back of the building. As the heavy, clunky doors closed, Derek realized the other side of the elevator made up the entire back wall of the facility. It made sense, considering that if they needed to get Negira into the building there was no way she'd fit through the front door.

            "He usually meets me topside," Stiles explained as the elevator slowly hissed downward. "I told him this wasn't urgent. I thought maybe you would, you know, like to see the treatment areas."

            "Okay," Derek said, because Stiles only stopped looking at him when he responded verbally.

            He wasn't sure it really mattered if he saw anything but the room upstairs; he could heal any damage dealt in a Division 3 fight and if he didn't win a fight in any higher divisions he wouldn't exactly need treatment. It occurred to him that not all Division 1 and 2 fights ended as cleanly as Negira's had gone, and that even the victor might sustain injury. He wondered where humans drew the line between an injury that could be healed and a mortal wound, and whether or not a victor would be simply culled if they didn't heal fast or well enough.

            He didn't ask, not sure if he wanted to know the answer.

            When the elevator doors opened again, it was to an expansive room, brightly lit with white light and tiled in white-coated metal plates. Everything about it screamed clean and new and Derek almost couldn't bear to set foot on it. Stiles had no similar compunctions, strolling out into the room as a figure appeared from a door on the other side.

            "Doc!" Stiles called, opening both his arms to apparently make himself seem bigger. Derek trailed behind him, confused and a little worried at the defensive tactic, wondering if he should follow suit as the vet approached them. Before he could make a decision one way or another, Stiles lowered his arms and stuck out his hand.

            The vet reached forward, taking Stiles' hand in his, and something within Derek hackled just slightly. Their hands bobbed together up and down once, firmly, before releasing, and Derek met the man's eyes for the first time.

            "Our new friend, I presume?" the vet said, extending his hand to Derek in the same way Stiles had reached for him. Derek just stared at it with knit brows, unwilling to touch the stranger. "Fair enough," he said, shrugging and giving Derek a smile instead. "My name is Alan, Alan Deaton. I'm the veterinarian for Mr. Stilinski's fighters. I hope we have very little contact after this."

            Nodding, Derek took that for what it was: a bid for his good health and well being. "Derek," he said quietly.

            "You're a wolf, correct?" Deaton asked, motioning for them to follow him as he began to cross the space back to the door where he had entered.

            "Yes," Derek answered, more stiffly than he intended. He liked vets. He usually liked vets; they were gentle, nice, healers.

            They crossed the rest of the way in silence, footsteps echoing eerily around them until Deaton opened the door and ushered them through it. On the other side was a much smaller room than the cavern behind them. In the center was a raised, padded platform with a small step at the foot of it, a couple of chairs, and a silvery sink in the corner. Another door lead away in the back and through the window Derek could see it looked like there was a desk and many cabinets.

            "You've done match exams before," Deaton said, which was less a question and more an observation. "Your handlers and warden were probably required to stay in the room, but that isn't the case here. It's your choice if Mr. Stilinski stays or waits outside, but I will need you to remove your clothing for the exam."

            He hadn't been wearing clothing long enough to feel uncomfortable without it, and so he curled his fingers into the hem of his shirt and stripped it off in one fluid motion. There was a clatter behind him and he turned in time to see Stiles scrambling to untangle himself from one of the chairs by the door. Derek gave him an odd look, shirt dangling loosely from one hand, as Stiles righted himself and fumbled with the door handle.

            "You just- I'm going to wait outside, I don't need to be in here for this," Stiles said in a rush, yanking on the door before the handle was fully turned, resulting in a clang that startled all of them.

            "Are you okay?" Derek asked, wadding up the shirt as he stepped back to give Stiles room to get away from them.

            "I'm fine!" Stiles said a little too loudly, but he smiled and seemed to get control of himself. "Good, I'm good. But you- you're a real boy now, ha..." There was some joke Derek didn't get, but he caught the swift once-over Stiles gave him before he looked away again and opened the door much more successfully this time. "So, yes. Good then. I'll just be outside."

            The door clicked shut behind him and Derek found himself turning to the vet as if he could explain Stiles' odd behavior. Before he could ask, he caught a familiar curl of scent, out of context for the setting, and turned back to the door with a frown. He looked down at the shirt balled up in his hand, and then to where Stiles had so unceremoniously disappeared.

            _Arousal_ , his mind supplied. He sniffed again, trying to track the scent, but it was already dissipating, so quickly that Derek doubted he'd even smelled it at all.

            "Have a seat," came the vet's voice behind him, and he glanced over in time to see Deaton absently patting the exam table with one hand, his nose in a folder full of papers splayed open on his other hand. "The Argents sent your medical records last week. Not unexpected, but it appears you've been very healthy."

            "Yes," Derek agreed, wriggling out of his pants - soft, heavy jeans - and clambering onto the table to sit. "Werewolves don't get sick, and we can heal most injuries."

            Deaton made a noise of agreement and snapped the folder shut. "Okay. I'm going to make this as quick as possible." He plucked a tongue depressor from the canister on the counter and pulled the penlight from his pocket. "Keep your eyes open please."

            Derek held his eyes open as Deaton passed the light in front of them, and shifted them to his golden beta shade when requested. The vet's eyebrows rose at that, but to Derek's great relief, he made no comment about the innocent color. Instead, he carried on, checking Derek's ears and his teeth and listening to his heart, to his breathing, checking all of the various health items on the long pre-match list.

            When he pulled out the little rubber mallet to test automatic reflexes, Derek did a poor job hiding a smile.

            "Do you want to do it?" Deaton asked, presenting the mallet to him with an answering smile.

            A little flutter of happiness flickered behind Derek's ribs. Testing reflexes with gentle taps was something he did to amuse himself when he was alone, watching his tendons snap his muscles into action, feeling his body answer the tiny, physical question. He'd only ever done it with his own knuckle, though, so he tentatively accepted the tool.

            "Tap here," Deaton instructed, touching a finger lightly to just beneath his knee. Derek followed the touch with a tap from his mallet and smiled when his leg jerked in response. Deaton touched his other knee with the same result, and then asked Derek to extend his arm to tap the inside of his elbows.

            "It's weird," Derek said softly. "I can't stop it from doing that."

            "It's a somatic reflex," Deaton explained, slipping the mallet from his lax grasp. "It doesn't ask your brain for permission first, it just reacts. Yours are very good. Look here," he said, pointing to a spot on the wall. "Tell me when you can see this." He held up the tongue depressor and then moved it to the side, out of Derek's line of sight. Slowly he edged it up until Derek could see the motion out of the corner of his eye.

            "Now," he said. His previous vets had never done that. He focused on staring straight ahead as Deaton moved to the other side and repeated the test. "What is that?"

            "Peripheral vision," Deaton said, finally moving over to the thick folder and writing down notes. "It tells me how far to each side you can see."

            For a few minutes Derek watched him writing silently on the pile of papers inside the folders. The script was neater than the other vets he'd seen, though he still had no idea what any of it said. He wondered if Cora would be able to read what her own file said, if she came in, and he thought maybe he would ask her to teach him when he got back.

            "Is there anything you want to report?" Deaton asked, not looking over at him. "Anything feel weird, or anything you want me to know about for future reference that might affect my care for you?"

            "Like what?" Derek asked, stiffening as he sat up straight. There was a lot about his past that could affect him; he wasn't prepared to tell the vet any of it. The other vets had never heard a single word from him and were able to do their job just fine.

            Deaton tipped his head a little, considering. "Any lasting injuries? I'm sure Stiles took you to meet his other fighters; Deucalion lost his sight."

            Derek swallowed, an uncomfortable feeling prickling at his skin. Wolves were not supposed to retain injuries like that. Even if Deucalion's eyes had been physically torn from his head, he should have been able to heal from it. "Yeah." The word came out dry and strained. "H-how did that happen?"

            "Do you know what a flashbulb is?" Deaton asked.

            "Yes," Derek said slowly, brow furrowing. Flash bulbs hurt, but they didn't blind anyone. "Handlers use them sometimes in the pit, if two fighters won't stop when the match is called."

            "Mhmm," Deaton agreed. "It's meant to temporarily burn your vision. Some of them make a loud crack as well, to disorient your hearing. Well, hunters sometimes tip their arrows in them, to use at range on wild wolves and other shifters."

            "He got hit with one?" Derek asked, his stomach flopping over at the idea.

            "Much worse I'm afraid," Deaton said quietly. "Stiles actually took Deucalion in before he could be culled, after his last warden buried a pair of flash-tipped arrows in Deucalion's eye sockets and set them off. He barely survived it."

            Blanching, Derek asked: "You saved him?"

            "Yes," Deaton said. "Me and a few others Stiles brought in for it. I'm afraid his vision never recovered completely."

            "How does he fight?" Derek asked softly, afraid it was a question he shouldn't even ask. Most of the time when a fighter became crippled in some way, they were just culled. He didn't know how exactly that was done, but culled fighters were never heard from again. There was no retirement in store for fighters. "If he can't see, how does he fight?"

            "Now isn't that the question?" Deaton said, closing up the folder and laying it on the counter again. "For a while we weren't sure what to do with him. If you don't know, humans aren't allowed to keep fighting class supers as pets, so it wasn't as though Deucalion could stay if he couldn't fight, and without his sight, we didn't think he would survive a Division 2 fight."

            "Division 3 is only to first blood," Derek reasoned out alongside Deaton's story. "So Stiles fought him there?"

            "The first time, yes," Deaton confirmed, smiling in a way that encouraged Derek to do the same. "What we discovered was that when he shifts to full alpha form, he regains a certain amount of vision. Enough to fight, at least."

            Slowly, Derek nodded, filing away the information for later. There was very little chance that Deucalion would have shared any of that with him, had he asked. A part of him felt uncomfortable knowing such intimate details about his past without Deucalion's permission, but he wasn't so guilty that he regretted knowing.

            "You can put your clothes back on," Deaton told him, interrupting his thoughts. "We're done here, and everything looks fine. Now, I'm not going to require you to come back before every match; that's a waste of my time and a waste of your time. But," he said, holding up a finger so that Derek looked at him. "I expect that if you are feeling off in any way, or if you are afflicted by any injury or ailment that doesn't heal as normal, that you request to see me immediately. Can you do that?"

            "Yes," Derek said quickly, pulling his shirt on over his head and then hopping off the edge of the exam table. "I should just tell Stiles?"

            "Or one of the handlers," Deaton added.

            The hairs on the back of Derek's neck and forearms prickled at the mention of the handlers, but he didn't voice his discomfort. He simply slipped on the rest of his clothing, fingers fumbling still with the concept of buttons, and gave Deaton a wan smile.

            "Thank you," he said quietly, almost a confession. "I've never gotten to thank a vet before. They've been... kind. Your people don't hurt mine."

            Deaton smiled, ushering him toward the door with a wave of his hand. "You're welcome. Your people deserve to be treated with kindness, Derek."

            "I don't think it would surprise you to know how few think so," Derek told him, wrapping his fingers around the handle and twisting, drawing open the door. Stiles was leaning against the wall just outside, so Derek took just one final look back to Deaton. "See you."

            "I hope not," Deaton said, raising one eyebrow. Derek snorted, not quite a laugh, and crossed the threshold back to Stiles.

            "Everything good?" Stiles asked, pushing away from the wall. Derek could feel the awkward way Stiles was not quite looking at him and it set him a little on edge to think he had possibly done something to cause it.

            "I'm healthy," Derek replied, tipping his head a little to study Stiles. "Are you okay?"

            "I'm fine," Stiles said, though his heartbeat quickened. Derek frowned.

            "Stiles." He waited until Stiles looked up at him, hesitant and almost... guilty. "I'm sorry I made you uncomfortable."

            That was the only conclusion Derek could draw; he knew humans were not used to walking around without clothes, and Stiles was clearly no exception. As glib as he had seemed about it when they met, it appeared his opinion on the matter had changed. Derek thought perhaps it was a human quirk, one which had to do with him no longer being a stranger to Stiles, and Derek was willing to accept that.

            "You didn't," Stiles rushed to say, but at Derek's pursed lips, he sighed. "Okay, you did, but not- look, it's okay. Really. You just caught me off guard. I don't normally stay for the exams."

            Though Derek could hear no lie in it, something still sounded off about the confession. There wasn't anything he could say to the contrary, though, so he nodded once and they began to walk for the exit together. He could feel Stiles practically vibrating with nervous energy, the sort that inherently contagious, and Derek spent a few paces trying to determine what he could possibly say to reassure the human that there would be no further surprises when it came to vet exams.

            He settled on saying quietly: "Next time I will notify you before I remove clothing."

            Beside him, Stiles choked on air, and Derek couldn't help but think that humans - or at least this human - only got stranger the better he got to know them.

 

* * *

_A warden shall be defined as_

_any human who owns at least one registered game piece_

_and is (or has the intention of)_

_participating in arena games matches_

* * *

 

            The next week passed quickly for Derek. He spent as much of his time with Cora as he was allowed, and she showed him her favorite books and taught him the alphabet one excruciating letter at a time. Isaac seemed complacent with sharing his time and two days into it he turned up with paper and writing utensils. Derek and Cora had spent the rest of the day tracing letters until they could both draw all 26 without looking.

            The blonde handler, whose name Derek had forgotten again but turned out to be _Erica_ , brought them dinner on covered, plastic platters that night. He was wary of her at first, but like Isaac she was gentle with both of them, her sarcasm softened by her brilliant smile. She turned all the letters of the alphabet into a song and sang it with them. Though she called it the ABC song, Derek couldn't figure out why; they said many more letters than A, B, and C. He chalked it up to another human quirk, and hummed the tune to himself as he fell asleep that night because it was the first song anyone had taught him.

            Stiles spent time around them, bringing food treats and asking questions about their progress. One of the days he took Derek on a drive in the Jeep, and they rode around the perimeter of Stiles' estate. It was larger than Derek had guessed, extending far back into the woods in the distance behind the barn. He asked if Stiles purchased all of it just from fight rewards. Stiles told him that investing smartly was just as important, but Derek didn't know what that meant and it sounded like a long explanation that would require many other explanations, so he didn't ask any more.

            He learned how to fetch food for himself, and the human who ran the kitchen was always nice to him. There was a mechanical box - several in fact, but the small one was the best - which heated food in a matter of minutes. Derek had unwittingly set fire to it one morning when he tried to heat something which had a thin, metallic covering wrapped around it, and he'd spent the rest of the day hiding in his room in a mixture of embarrassment and panic, trying to soak the scent of ash and flame from his memory with cold showers.

            Now he sat cross-legged on the covers of his bed, hands in his lap, trying to find some mote of exhaustion within himself that would allow him to sleep. In the morning he would be traveling with Stiles to a nearby arena for his first match as Stiles' fighter, and he was more nervous than he remembered being in over a decade.

            The soft knock on his door, when it came, startled him. He hadn't heard the footsteps or the heartbeat, though they were loud now that Stiles stood outside his door, awaiting permission to enter. Derek had gotten much more comfortable having his own space, but he had yet to deny anyone entrance. Sometimes he wondered what would happen if he said no, but he was unwilling to find out.

            "Come in," he called, picking at a loose thread on the comforter.

            The heavy door creaked open and Stiles poked his head in. "Still up?" he asked, then moved around the door and left it open behind him. He always left it open, and no matter how comfortable Derek was with him after the past three weeks, he was still glad not to be trapped in a room with a human. “Guess it’s probably hard to sleep before a fight.”

            “Sometimes,” Derek admitted, tipping his head to Stiles. “Do they make you nervous?”

            “Sometimes,” Stiles echoed, a smile flickering at the edges of his lips. “I don’t like seeing you guys get hurt.”

            “We heal.” Derek shrugged, both because it was true and because it wasn’t like they had any other options.

            “Your bodies do,” Stiles said softly. "I just wanted to make sure you still want to do this. There's still time to forfeit the match."

            "It's fine," Derek said. In a way, it actually was; he'd spent so much time feeling completely out of his element in the past three weeks that setting foot into the pit for a quick fight seemed almost like it would be a relief. The pit, at least, he knew. Fighting he knew.

            "In that case..." Stiles said, moving a little closer to hold out the box clasped in his hands. “You’re going to need these tomorrow.” When Derek reached for the box, Stiles tipped it out of range. Derek looked up, confused. “You don’t have to put either of these on until we get to the arena tomorrow, okay? And they’re off the moment you get home.”

            Derek swallowed the heady feeling he had about the way Stiles said _home_ , and nodded. With another second of hesitation, Stiles handed over the box and Derek brought it to rest heavily in his lap. Carefully he lifted the top, setting it aside as his eyes snagged on the contents.

            It was a collar, thick leather like the one he'd arrived wearing, but far more supple. He lifted it from the box with one finger, letting the ends dangle. There was no scent of wolfsbane on it, no trace of anything but fresh, durable leather. Where his old collar had been a prison, this one spoke of protection, and he found that the idea of clasping it shut around his neck didn't frighten him.

            Stiles was standing by, anxiously staring at him as if he required approval. Derek set the collar down outside of the box and nodded. "I can wear that," he confirmed, picking up the second item inside the box.

            "There's no wolfsbane," Stiles pointed out, like he thought Derek wouldn't be able to smell it. "It should give you a little more power in the arena, at least, even if you don't have more freedom."

            "It'll keep them from tearing my throat out with their teeth," Derek said, then held up the small device he had retrieved. "What is this?"

            "Oh!" Stiles said, moving into Derek's space to pluck the item from between his fingers. "It's a com- a uh, communication device. You put it in your ear and it allows me to hear you and you to hear me."

            "Is that... allowed?" Derek asked, looking at Stiles turn it over in his hand with an admiring smile.

            "Not.... strictly speaking?" Stiles said with a wince. "They're not exactly outlawed, but I assume they would be if anyone found out I use them, so don't go playing show and tell, okay?"

            "Okay," Derek said solemnly.

            "Here, I can show you how to put it in," Stiles said, motioning Derek forward. Derek leaned in and Stiles held his face gently in place, one warm hand along the curve of his jaw as he placed the tiny device inside the shell of Derek's ear. It turned slightly at pressure from Stiles, and then it was in, snug and soft, not at all uncomfortable. Stiles tipped Derek's head slightly, until he could see it to be sure, and then smiled. "All set."

            "I can barely feel it," Derek said, working his jaw open and closed. The device was lightweight, but he tensed when he realized it blocked hearing in that ear. He wondered how that would affect his ability to fight, and if he should say something to Stiles about it.

            "I'm going to turn it on," Stiles said, pulling a little plastic box from his pocket. At a tap from Stiles' finger, the stuffy, muffled feeling in his ear dissipated and Derek found himself relaxing again. Stiles raised one finger to his own ear. "Can you hear me?"

            Derek jumped at the proximity of the sound, fed directly into his ear like that. It almost sounded as if Stiles was in his head. "Yes," he answered, and Stiles nodded.

            "I can hear you too. You don't have to touch your device to transmit; it's an open mic, which means as long as it's turned on, I can hear everything you say," Stiles informed him.

            "That seems like cheating," Derek said.

            "Maybe," Stiles replied with a little grin, finger still on his own device, his voice rattling around Derek's head like a stray thought. "But no one told me I can't. This will allow me to tell you anything I see that you might need to know, but it also allows you to tell me if you need to stop the fight for any reason. If anything is going wrong, I need you to say something, okay?"

            Brow furrowing, Derek nodded. "It's weird," he said. When Stiles tipped his head in question, Derek frowned, not sure what exactly he could say to explain it. "Just, that you get so close. I'm not used to wardens... caring."

            Derek wasn't sure what to do with the expression that crossed Stiles' face at hearing that. It was soft and almost wounded, but wounded _for_ Derek rather than _by_ him. It made Derek's insides twist up, his heart leaping into his throat for a split second, and so he dropped his gaze, eyes closing as he regained a sense of control.

            "Being a warden should never mean not caring, Derek," Stiles said softly, voice still in his ear. "There was a time when warden meant _guardian_ , you know. Protector."

            Derek heard the uptick in Stiles' heart a second before he felt fingertips slide along the stubble of his jaw, just the barest brush of fingers to encourage Derek to look up again. When he did, when he opened his eyes and met Stiles' gaze, Stiles was smiling.

            "I'm going to do whatever I can to protect you through all of this," Stiles said softly, thumb ghosting over his cheek a second before he withdrew his hand. "You're not _alone_ in this fight."

            Swallowing thickly, Derek nodded, not a little bewildered at the sense of relief those words brought him. "Thank you," he breathed out, and was rewarded by a light hearted chuckle from Stiles.

            "Come on, let's get that out and you can get some rest before tomorrow," Stiles told him, demonstrating with his own ear piece how to remove it. Derek tugged it out gently with one finger and it dropped into his waiting hand. Stiles plucked it from his palm, put it in the box next to the collar, and placed the box on the cabinet next to the bed. "Good night, Derek."

            "Good night, Stiles," Derek echoed, watching as Stiles disappeared, the door clicking shut behind him and leaving Derek in silence. After a few moments, he slipped off the edge of the bed and curled up beneath it to sleep, skin still prickling with warmth where Stiles had touched.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO MUCH to [Elin](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/Maverick88) for her beta reading and listening to me ramble on and on and staying up until all hours with me. Seriously an amazing human being!

 

 

* * *

_An arena shall be defined as any facility_

_dedicated to hosting arena game matches_

_within its perimeter_

* * *

 

            Derek leaned up against the side of the holding pen, staring at the wall across from him. It was metal, but there were claw marks shaved into it, scratch marks desperately carved in frantic escape attempts. Derek had never left marks like that on any of the arena pens, but he'd heard others scraping, howling, and screeching to get free. They were the sort of creatures that could not - or at least could _no longer_ \- communicate with language. Some of them were brought in wild, others turned feral after enough time in the pit.

            Thankfully, the shifter on the other side of Derek's wall this time was not feral at all. She was an older ursine shifter, one of the more common people Derek encountered, and she'd been telling him stories about Division 2. Her warden had retired her back to Division 3 only a couple of months ago after a close call with a woodland sprite.

            "It's not worth it," she said quietly, the vibrations of her voice shivering vaguely across his back through the partition between them. "All that blood on your hands."

            "There's no choice," Derek replied, letting his head thunk back against the wall. "We all go where our wardens send us, right?"

            "Sure," she said. He felt the soft scrape of her shoulder as she shrugged. "I'm just glad I got moved down a division because, you know, I don't think I could have kept doing it. I think it would have been easier to just let the other fighter win."

            "You'd die," Derek said, feeling sick.

            He hated encountering fighters that had lost their hope. He supposed it came with enough years in the pit, but he liked to think he would never have lost hope, even if Stiles hadn't saved him. Being here, though, back in a pen, the weight of the leather collar around his neck burning into his skin, the scent of fear and blood and anger all around him, he wondered what he ever thought there had been to hope _for_. Before Stiles, Derek wasn't sure what he had been holding onto, only that he had refused to let go of it.

            "Yeah," said the other fighter. "But I'd be free. No more fighting."

            "Don't you wish there was something else?" Derek asked, wishing desperately that he could see her face. "What if there was a way out?"

            She laughed then, but it was mirthless. "There's a way out, wolf. It's in a red box."

            "I mean a different way," Derek said, exasperated. "What if you could win enough fights that your warden could set you free?"

            "To go where?" she scoffed. He felt her pull away from the wall and he wondered if she wished she could see him as well. "To go play pretend with the humans? Could you stand living with them knowing everything they've done to supers?"

            "What if there was a sanctuary?" Derek offered softly. "Someplace just for supers, no humans allowed."

            "Dreams," she said, but she settled back against the wall again. "Nice ones, but dreams all the same."

            "What if, though?" Derek pressed. "Would you do it? Would you go back to killing if it meant you could get free? Would you fight Division 1, if they'd let you out afterward, if you never had to hurt anyone again?"

            For a while she was quiet, the pitch and roll of the crowd's shouting beyond their gates filtering through to fill the silence. He knew how difficult of a question it was to be asked; he'd had to answer it, after all. He wouldn't blame her either way, whatever she answered.

            "It's not worth it," she said, echoing her earlier statement. "Even if I got out, made it to your magical _sanctuary_ , there'd be no one to share it with. We're social creatures, you and I; living alone's not really living at all."

            "If all of us could do it?" Derek prompted. "If it was a rule, and everyone had the chance to do it because you did it first, would it be worth it then?"

            "You got a lot of questions that don't go anywhere," she told him, but she sighed and he felt and heard her head thump back against the wall. "Yeah, I would. If it meant everyone had a chance, I would. But that's a hefty price to pay, you know. You start becoming a human when you decide you can just trade lives to get whatever you want."

            The roar of the crowd rose a moment before the pen-area door opened. Beyond it, Derek could see the room where the handlers waited between matches. There was only one entrance or exit to the humanoid holding pen hallway so that any super who tried to escape would have to first make it through a dozen trained, skilled handlers.

            Erica and Boyd entered the hallway together and Derek heard the shifter in the next pen scoot away to the gate-side wall. He had no way to explain to her that they weren't coming for her or that they wouldn't cause her any harm, not without giving away that he talked around them. Though they were required to carry zap sticks, they kept them sheathed on their belts behind their backs, out of sight of Derek and the other supers.

            "You're up," Boyd said, wrapping one hand around the bars of Derek's pen. This was the point where, in any other fight Derek had ever been in, the handlers would zap the bars, prod at Derek until he was backed up against the gate-side wall and ready to stumble into the arena to avoid getting shocked. Instead, Boyd just stood there, patiently watching him.

            "You don't have to go," Erica reminded him softly. "Stiles can forfeit the match any time."

            Derek glanced to his left, to where the other shifter sat just out of view, and shook his head. He wasn't backing out, especially not from a Division 3 fight. He touched his finger to the tiny com in his ear, though, because he couldn't hear Stiles yet.

            Reaching behind her, Erica pulled a small box from her pocket, much like the one Stiles had used to activate the device the night before, and she spoke directly into it. "He's ready, Stiles. Ears on."

            The muffled sensation in Derek's right ear cleared and a moment later Stiles' voice filtered through, crisp and clean, the crowd around him a constant hum in the background. "You're going to do great, Derek."

            He looked at Erica and Boyd, then took a glance toward the other occupant of the pens. He couldn't answer, not yet, so he settled for a low, pleasant hum of agreement. In his ear, Stiles laughed, and Derek relaxed.

 

* * *

  _A clean Record of Health ticket less_

_than three (3) days old must be_

_presented on the day of the match_

* * *

 

            The dining room was one of Derek's favorite places to settle in when there was nothing more pressing to do, and he found it no less enjoyable the day after a fight. The cook, whose name turned out to be Harvelle when Derek asked, was more than happy to bring him small bits of various types of food for him to try. He called Derek his little guinea pig, which Derek really didn't understand at all, even after Harvelle explained that a guinea pig was a small, furry creature.

            "Doesn't matter what it is," Harvelle told him gruffly, shoving a plate with six different types of fruit on it toward Derek. "Eat your fruit, boy. Don't know about guinea pigs, indeed."

            Currently, Derek had a platter with many different biscuits - _crackers_ , Harvelle said when he'd put the plate down, _quit callin' 'em biscuits_ \- and cheeses. Derek liked cheese. It was creamy and there were so many different colors and flavors he wasn't sure he'd ever try them all. He'd managed to decimate half the platter but had eventually put his head down on the table, pillowed on his arm, defeated.

            The soft vibration of someone pulling a chair out next to him woke him and he startled up from the table the instant before he realized it was just Stiles. The human was containing a laugh, his lips pressed tightly together and his amber-brown eyes twinkling. Derek liked that look.

            "I didn't mean to wake you," Stiles apologized, reaching forward slightly to slide a little box toward him. "I brought something for you."

            Settling back down into his chair, Derek scooted in closer to the table and then lifted the lid from the box. Inside was a nest of incredibly soft, black material and resting atop of it lay two thin rings of silver. Collars. He looked up and met Stiles' eyes.

            "It took longer than expected," Stiles said quietly. "This one is like Cora's and can be worn as a bracelet around the house. This other one doesn't twist and fold, since you have to be able to wear it outside of the estate and there are regulations."

            "Do I have to wear it?" Derek asked, mouth dry. He'd gone over three weeks without wearing a permanent collar. The thought of snapping one back around his neck, even one he could remove, didn't sit well with him.

           "You have to at least wear the bracelet one," Stiles told him, reaching out to pick it up from the cloth. It was very thin, flexible. Stiles twisted it until it was a double ring, small enough to fit around his wrist, and slid it carefully over his own hand. "Like this. If you see or hear anyone that could cause trouble, you just take it off and put it around your neck." He demonstrated, quickly snapping off the bracelet, which sprung back to being a collar, and affixed it around his own neck.

            Derek swallowed, but nodded. "I can do that," he said. Cora had been doing that for a long time now, so he was sure he could handle it as well.

            Stiles was more tentative about lifting the second collar. It was thicker, solid, with writing carved on the inside edge. "Alternately," he said gingerly. "You could wear this one all of the time. I've had them make it very loose, more like a necklace than a collar, and the clasp cannot lock."

            Despite the time that had passed, Derek only just barely kept himself from tipping his chin up to allow Stiles access the moment the collar was in his hands. Some part of him knew that he didn't have to wear it, that Stiles would not _make_ him wear it, but the sense of freedom that came with being uncollared was heady, almost addictive. He took a couple of deep breaths and Stiles made no move to do anything but await his decision.

            "What does it say?" Derek asked, eyes flicking up to meet Stiles'.

            "My name," Stiles said. "It's engraved with my full name, both our registration numbers, and my phone number and address."

            "And you-" His voice caught and he cleared his throat, straightening up before trying again. "And you'll show me how to take it off?"

            "Of course," Stiles said, remaining perfectly still.

            Slowly, Derek tipped his chin up. "Okay. Let me try it."

            Stiles nodded and unlatched the clasp, scooting his chair forward until he could slip the smooth metal around Derek's neck. Where Stiles' fingers were hot, the collar was cool on his wolf-warm skin. Stiles had been truthful to say it hung loose, he noted. He didn't particularly want to be collared at all, but he didn't trust himself to put on the wrist collar fast enough if someone came onto the property. The permanent one didn't feel restrictive; it rested loosely around his neck, the D-ring on bottom edge of it resting comfortably against the hollow of his throat.

            As he pulled his hands away, Stiles ran one finger over the outside of the collar and for a split second Derek was _certain_ he was going to comment. He could hear Kate's voice telling him he was a good boy, looked good wearing her collar. The look in Stiles' eyes was perhaps softer, but not so different that Derek didn't recognize it.

            "I'm sorry," Stiles said instead. "It's such a shame it has to be this way. Their rules are so _stupid_ , so _degrading._ "

            "You're going to change them," Derek told him, surprising himself. He hadn't meant to say it, but once he had, he knew it was true. He knew why he felt Stiles was different. "Aren't you?"

            "Yes," Stiles agreed, lighting up with a smile. The expression tingled through Derek in a not-unpleasant way. He wondered what he would have to do to see it again as Stiles held out a hand to him. "You want to know how to get it off?"

            "Yes," Derek said.

            "Then may I see your hand?" Stiles asked quietly, amusement glimmering in his eyes. Derek held out his hand for inspection, but Stiles took it gently, and guided his fingers back to the clasp. "Do you feel that?" When Derek nodded, Stiles pressed Derek's finger into place and helped him to pull the clasp. The collar opened, falling into Derek's lap with a clack. "And that's all."

            "That was easy," Derek said, inspecting the collar as he lifted it. He scooted his chair out and then brought the collar up, clasping it around his neck with a click. It hung loose and unobtrusive when he released it. "I think I can wear this one."

            Stiles nodded and finally stood up to move away, giving Derek back his space. "You can take it off at night," Stiles told him. "I've never had anyone show up after dark or before dawn."

            A small part of Derek relaxed at the idea of being able to ritualize the collar just as he did clothing. It could be something he wore in the presence of humans, but also something he removed when he was allowed to have his own space again. It seemed even less like a prison when he could compartmentalize it into just another piece of clothing he had to wear during the day.

            "Thank you," Derek said, flushing a little.

            "For what?" Stiles asked, snorting. "Neither one of us wants you to wear it."

            "For trying," Derek said quietly. It hadn't seemed like Stiles asked to get an answer, but Derek needed to tell him. He looked down, unable to meet his eyes as he continued. "For seeing something wrong and trying to fix it, over and over. For making me think it's possible. For giving me a chance."

            "Derek-"

            "Ever since you walked into the Argent kennel and took me home with you," Derek said, interrupting. "You changed everything. You've made it better. I don't- I don't always get why you- why you _do it_ , but I'm glad you do, so just... thank you."

            Stiles wavered for a second, looking lost somewhere between moving forward and moving back, before he just sighed. "You deserve being treated like a person, Derek. Don't you ever- aren't you mad? At humans?"

            "No," Derek admitted with a shrug. "Not really. I was. When my home burned down and my mom was gone and they took Laura and Cora away from me, I was mad. But what good does it do? Doesn't hurt the humans if you're mad at them. They just get meaner if you don't behave."

            "I'm sorry," Stiles said softly.

            Derek sighed. His past wasn't Stiles' fault. "It's fine, it's past the bell."

            Stiles tipped his head, and Derek realized maybe humans didn't say that, but instead of asking, Stiles just shook his head a little. "If you insist. I'm going to head to bed. Sleep well."

            Derek watched until Stiles was out of sight, and then dropped his gaze back to the box on the table. Reaching up, he traced his fingers over the collar and then unlatched it, placing it carefully within the box. It occurred to him that Stiles had never removed the thinner, bendy collar from his own neck before leaving. He remembered, vaguely, that Stiles had taken Derek's old collar when he arrived, wrapping it around his own wrist so they could continue the tour.

            He'd never seen the collar again. He wondered where Stiles had put it, whether he had kept it or just thrown it away. Somehow he thought he would likely never see it again, and he added that to the growing list of reasons he trusted Stiles.

 

* * *

  _Wardens must be registered with_

_the Arena Regulatory Committee (ARC)_

_and the arena at which they intend to participate_

* * *

 

            "It's the full moon tonight," Derek said instead of greeting Stiles, when he finally found him out by the garage.

            "Yeah," Stiles said, scrubbing along the side of his Jeep with small, circular strokes of what looked to be a very soft sponge. He halted abruptly and turned to Derek. "Oh, right. Your first one here. Ah, let me just- I gotta finish this. You want to help?"

            Derek drew back a little, eyes flickering over the situation. There were buckets on the ground full of soapy water, a hose partially coiled nearby, and the Jeep was covered in circular trails of suds. Stiles stood amongst the disarray, soaking wet, his blue shirt clinging to every line of his body. Mouth suddenly dry, Derek's eyes snapped back to Stiles' and Stiles looked down, as if realizing his current state.

            "Oh!" Stiles said quickly, waving his hands. "No, you don't have to get wet to- oh geeze, I mean you can stay dry, mostly. Erica was just out helping me but she sprayed me with the hose so I sent her inside. Look, this won't take long, you don't have to help, just hang out there."

            Without a word, Derek crossed over to one of the buckets and grabbed what he assumed was Erica's discarded sponge. He crossed to the far side of the Jeep and began to scrub. He could feel Stiles' eyes on him for a moment, but then he resumed his own task. After a little while, Derek actually relaxed into the work, focused on getting rid of the streaks of dirt and the smashed insects on the front grill and leaving only clean, sparkling metal in his wake.

            When Stiles finally brought out the hose, spraying off the soap, Derek was fascinated by how the suds rinsed away in sheets and a new vehicle seemed to emerge. It glittered in the sunlight, and Derek found he was a little proud. He glanced over to Stiles, who was wiggling the hose around as he sprayed, a fond smile on his face.

            "There," Stiles declared at last, releasing the nozzle of the hose and tossing it back to the coils on the ground. "Looks great!"

            "The full moon?" Derek prompted, not having forgotten why he had sought Stiles out.

            "Oh, right!" Stiles said, clapping his hands together. "Hop in, then! Let's go get Roscoe dirty again."

            "What?" Derek asked, but he opened the side door as Stiles skirted around to the driver's side.

            "Roscoe!" Stiles told him as he closed the door and started the engine. "That's his name. My Jeep."

            Derek looked down, suddenly hyper aware that they were sitting inside of what he had thought was an inanimate object. "He?"

            A short, sharp bark of laughter escaped Stiles, and he began to back the Jeep - Roscoe, Derek corrected himself - out of the drive. "It's not alive," Stiles assured him. "Humans are sometimes silly, and we name objects we like."

            Face scrunching, Derek settled back into his seat. "Where are we going?"

            "Gonna drive the perimeter again," Stiles said. "You remember the fence?"

            "Yes," Derek said cautiously. Stiles had driven him around the perimeter of his estate once already. It was surrounded entirely by a low, metal fence with cement along the bottom to keep anything from digging in or out. "I remember where the borders are."

            "But?" Stiles prompted. "You sound like there's a but."

            "But... why aren't we going to- I mean, it's a full moon, Stiles," Derek said, exasperated. Wolves got locked up on the full moon, when it was believed they were the least in control of their shift. The Argents had a special set of rooms for their werewolf fighters and Derek couldn't imagine Stiles having any less for his alpha pack.

            "So you've said," Stiles agreed, sounding so amused it irritated Derek.

            "You're going to lock me up," Derek finally spat out, angry that they had to actually have the conversation at all. Stiles should have been keeping track. "You have to."

            "I don't," Stiles said with a shrug, his eyes on the two-track road they were following toward the perimeter. "I have the facilities to lock you up, if that's what you want, but they're normally for show. We have a... _different_ method here."

            Derek's blood ran cold at the idea. There were other methods of keeping a werewolf out of the way on a full moon than just locking them up. A mountain ash circle. Wolfsbane, or other drugs. Deal enough damage to them that their bodies take the entire night to heal.

            "There's over four hundred acres here, Derek," Stiles said softly, dragging him back to the conversation. "Over half of that is forest. You know the fence could never keep you in if you wanted out; it's there to tell you when to stop. I'm not going to lock you up or hurt you or do anything bad; you just get to run."

            "What?" Derek asked, looking over with wide eyes, afraid that he had heard wrong.

            "You get to run," Stiles repeated. "Wherever you want on the property, as long as you return home by dawn. Cora will go with you, and the others will all be out there. I don't know if you want to run with them or not, but they usually band up before they take off."

            "You trust them?" Derek asked incredulously. He hadn't even met three of them and he didn't trust them. Kali hated Stiles and Deucalion didn't trust him and Derek couldn't imagine the others were any better. "To stop at the fence?"

            "Not even a little!" Stiles said with a laugh. He turned the car as they reached the fence, following the edge of it. "That's why I let Negira go, too. She'll watch over all of you. If you get too close to the border, she'll let you know."

            "She'll kill us," said Derek. The thought of meeting the ridgeback in the dark on a full moon in the woods was terrifying.

            "Oh, much worse," Stiles assured him. "She'll carry you back here kicking and screaming. It's very undignified."

            Derek looked over, trying to discern if Stiles were somehow lying to him despite the even beat of his heart. When Stiles noticed, he grinned. "You're serious," Derek said.

            "Absolutely," Stiles confirmed. "She's very well trained."

            "Aren't you afraid she'll leave, too?" Derek asked.

            "Not really." Stiles shrugged. "This is home, for her. I'm her family. If she was going to leave for someplace, it'd be here."

            "And you still fight her, knowing she could be killed?" Derek said. If it sounded a little accusatory, he didn't feel like retracting it; he had always wondered how any human who actually cared for their supers could still fight them.

            Stiles' grip tightened on the wheel. "I _have_ to. If I don't play her, they'll take her away. That's how I even got started in all this; my dad had to sign me up for Division 5 so that we could keep her after her first year."

            "You could fight her in Division 4," Derek pointed out. "That's only to first blood."

            "But it doesn't pay the bills for either of us," Stiles said. "I couldn't keep her well enough if she fought only Division 4." He glanced over, looked Derek up and down once. "I wouldn't have been able to help you, either."

            Derek pursed his lips. He didn't know how to argue that, but he wanted to. He wanted to tell Stiles to _find a way_ but he also knew that's what Stiles was doing. When he agreed to give this whole ordeal a try, to take a fighter through the Divisions and on to freedom, he was trying to find a way out for some of them. He was trying to make changes.

            "I should see if Scott can come out," Stiles said a while later. "He was my partner in crime, you know, before he got bitten. He had a young all-shifter his father bought him when Negira hatched, so that we could still play together."

            Surprised, Derek looked over. "It wasn't his own fighter that bit him?"

            "No, although that would have been much more poetic," Stiles said. "No, when we moved to Division 4, we snuck into the kennel to see the other game pieces people had. Really, we weren't supposed to be there, not just for safety, but we were pretty young and stupid." Stiles' jaw clenched a little. "It was my fault, I suggested we go, and Scott-"

            When he trailed off, jaw wiring shut, Derek looked away. "You don't have to talk about it."

            "The only reason we were able to get in was because there was a werewolf loose inside. The handlers were all trying to get it under control, so they weren't in the catch room. We thought maybe they'd snuck off, you know? When we opened the door, the wolf was right there, and it bit him before it took off."

            "What happened to the wolf?" Derek asked softly.

            "Dunno," Stiles said. "We'd left the catch room door open on the way through. The handlers showed up on the wolf's heels, and some of them chased after it. I was so wrapped up in keeping Scott safe and alive... I never checked."

            Derek let that sit between them for a moment before he asked: "Could you check now?"

            The Jeep slowed a little as Stiles took in the question and Derek could almost see the way he turned it over in his head. Humans were very into paperwork, documenting everything. Often he'd heard Kate or Lydia and even Stiles, now, talking about paperwork and registrations. Getting bitten by a werewolf seemed like something there would be paperwork for.

            "Maybe," Stiles said at last. "I'm sure it's on record somewhere, which game piece it was. Though, to be perfectly honest, his warden probably had him destroyed. Supers that turn on humans aren't usually tolerated."

            "They're just expected to take whatever harm befalls them in placid silence," Derek finished for him.

            "Yeah." Stiles sighed. "Something like that."

            They drove for a long time in silence after that, Derek watching the iron fence pass them by to his right. Sunlight dappled the grass at the edges of the forest, where the trees tapered off into the bright green grass that edged the two-track road they followed. It was almost peaceful, the rock and sway of the Jeep lulling him into a blank state of mind.

            He knew he was supposed to be watching the course they took, so that he could stop himself from reaching the fence that night, but he remembered it well enough from the last time and the forest was much more interesting now that he knew he would get to run it under the moon.

            Out in the forest, he could hear birds chattering over the noise of the engine and see them ducking and swooping between branches. He watched them for a few minutes, smiling as he recalled the birds that occasionally made it into the kennels. They nested in the rafters or once in a while right in the fencing if they had the right material. If they stayed put and didn't make a fuss, sometimes they could keep a nest long enough to raise a baby. Derek was not the only one guilty of crumbling part of a biscuit to give to the birds, just to be able to watch them a little longer.

            "What happened to your friend's fighter?" Derek asked.

            "I took her in, after Scott was bitten," Stiles answered, tapping his thumb on the wheel in thought. "She was good."

            "But?" Derek prompted.

            "But, the centaur she ended up against was better," Stiles said simply. "It was early on for me in Division 2, only her third fight. It was going fine until she took a hoof to the temple. Knocked her out and he just-" Stiles bopped the wheel with his hand, made a small crushing noise.

            "I'm sorry," Derek told him.

            "It's uh... what did you call it the other night? Past the bell?" Stiles chuckled.

            Derek flushed, but nodded. "Yeah," he said. "Once the arena bell tolls, you can't change anything that happened, so you have to let it go."

            "That's... strangely nice," Stiles said slowly. "I kind of wish humans thought like that. We hold grudges, though."

            "Nasty habit," Derek said.

            "Yeah," Stiles agreed.

            They made the rest of the drive in silence, each lost in their own thoughts.

          

* * *

_Division-specific arenas shall be defined_

_as any arena devoted to a single Division bracket_

* * *

 

            Derek tipped his head when he heard the rumble of an unfamiliar car in the driveway. His fingers flitted to check the collar around his neck, and then he scooted out from the desk, leaving behind the storybook he had been sounding out. The car sounded small, one of the little personal ones made for traveling with just humans. Darting across the hall, he peeked out the window to confirm his suspicion, taking in the chunky, silver car for a split second before closing his eyes and trying to locate the heartbeat of any of the handlers.

            He found Boyd first, down the hallway a few doors, and poked his nose in. Boyd looked up from where he was reading on a bed that was not his own, both brows raising at Derek's intrusion.

            "There's someone here," Derek told him, eyes following the motion of him setting down his book and clambering to his feet. The human's heartbeat never faltered, though, so Derek guessed this wasn't a surprise visit.

            "Probably McCall," he said, ushering Derek out of the room and closing the door behind himself. "He's early though." He plucked a device from his belt and pressed one of the buttons. "Stiles?"

            The device crackled in a horrible way and then Stiles' voice was coming out of it, tinny and distorted. "Scott?"

            "Yes, sir. Derek spotted him first."

            "Great!" Stiles exclaimed through the crackle. "Can you two meet us in the dining room?"

            "Sure can," Boyd agreed. He clipped the device back onto his belt and motioned for Derek to follow him.

            Together they plodded through the house, moving at a speed that was in no hurry to get anywhere. Derek considered dashing ahead of Boyd, because he knew where the dining room was better than almost any other room in the manor, but he remained a step behind the handler just in case Scott had come with someone who was not supposed to see Derek wandering about on his own.

            As they got near, Derek could hear Stiles' voice, intertwined with the unfamiliar voice of another who was speaking animatedly about traveling. Stiles' rich laughter spilled out into the hall, and Derek caught himself smiling a moment before they rounded the doorway and Derek finally caught sight of Stiles' friend for the first time.

            "It's you!" the stranger exclaimed, pointing at Derek. He was young, as young as Stiles, with floppy brown hair and warm brown eyes and a slightly crooked jaw if Derek looked closely enough. His smile was contagious as he crossed the room, holding out a hand to Derek. "I'm Scott!"

            "Derek," Derek greeted, glancing to Stiles for some indication of how to greet the newcomer. Stiles was using one of his hands to hold the other and carry it up and down, and Derek recalled the human greeting just in time to take Scott's hand in his.

           Scott quickly grasped him with both hands, giving one good, solid shake before clapping him on the shoulders. "Man, it's nice to finally meet you, Derek! Stiles has told me a lot about you. You're a hero where I'm from, you know. Everyone's talking about how well this is all going."

            "It's been one fight," Derek said before he could stop himself. Scott reeked of werewolf and Derek wondered how humans could look at this one and think him any different than any other shifter. He didn't know any supers that would make that sort of distinction; Scott was a werewolf, regardless of how he'd started, and Derek felt no compulsion to watch his words around him.

            "Well, yeah," Scott said, wincing a little and looking to Stiles for help. Stiles just shrugged, leaving Scott to handle Derek on his own. "But, you know, we had a really long battle with the ARC to even get them to agree to let someone fight to go free. We had to press on them from all sides."

           Derek shot a look to Stiles, who smiled and nodded to Scott, a clear indication to ask whatever questions he wanted. "Why did they agree?" Derek asked. "It seems... like a loss on their part, to change the system that's working for them and risk letting humans consider giving compassion to supers."

          "To be fair, it's not all supers," Scott said, like that was at all reasonable. "But they didn't have much of a choice, right? They have this public image, the one they show to civilian humans- the ones that don't fight, they just watch. The ones that don't know any better. The games are all... it's not very real to them, and when it is, they often see it as an entertaining way to rid the world of... monsters."

            "Abominations," Stiles supplied helpfully. Derek looked over, brow knitting at the implication. "And we're going to stop them seeing it that way, and start seeing it our way."

            "Exactly," Scott said. "The first step was putting pressure on the ARC, swinging some of the public around to questioning them because there was no way to peacefully retire a fighter."

            "That's why they agreed to give you a chance?" Derek said. "Because other humans took their heads out of the sand?"

            "Basically, yeah," Stiles said. "I mean, there's more to it, of course."

            "The group was pretty much floundering before Stiles and I showed up," Scott explained. "They didn't have funding, they were pressing in the wrong places. The ARC might have been able to ignore the public, but they couldn't ignore both the public _and_ when Stiles got other wardens involved."

            Derek looked over, brows raising at the news. "Others?" There was an awful lot, it seemed, that Stiles had not told him.

            "Friends, colleagues," Stiles said reasonably. "There are more than a couple of wardens who have a vested interest in keeping certain fighters in their care safe, and even a few who _know_ about how intelligent supers are. They were willing to voice concerns alongside mine, add complaints until the ARC had to give an answer."

            "Which they did," Scott added. "They agreed to let us run a fighter through the system and offer the warden a chance to release the fighter into our care. We have legal permission to run the sanctuary, but you'll be the first one in it."

            "Just like that?" Derek said, looking between the two. They seemed so sure of themselves, like this was going to be so simple for them. Maybe it was. The difficult part, it seemed, was going to be on him.

            "Obviously we aren't out of hot water yet," Scott said, confirming Derek's thoughts. "A lot of this hinges on... well, you. Whether you can make it or not. That's going to be the hardest part."

            "You honestly think that they'll just let me walk away if I make it through?" Derek asked. It was a question he'd asked himself a hundred times a day, wondering whether or not the humans were good for their word or not.

            "I think we're going to make it impossible for them not to," Scott said firmly. "We're going to make backing out of this even more uncomfortable than letting you through."

            Derek made a face, but in good humor. "You sound like Stiles."

            "He sounds like me," Scott said with a grin.

            Smiling, Derek nodded and then looked to Stiles. It was strange to think that these two boys standing before him with goofy smiles on their faces, were setting out to cause so much trouble. It was, perhaps, stranger still to think that they had the _power_ to do so. Listening to the two of them as they turned the conversation back to one another to discuss plans, Derek thought it seemed like they could really do everything they had promised him.

 

* * *

  _Should a warden opt to use a set of personal handlers,_

_handler replacement waivers must be_

_filled out, signed, and approved_

* * *

 

            It was a quiet crowd when Derek finally stepped onto the sands of the pit. Across the arena he could see the other gate was opened and another fighter was emerging. Derek's nose wrinkled at the smell; minotaur always smelled so horrible. This one was, as usual, much larger than Derek, his burnished horns sharpened and shining in the glittery arena lights. He nodded to Derek, opening both hands to show he was weaponless, and Derek nodded in return.

            He liked minotaur, as a whole. They were generally honorable creatures, short on the common language but big on being fair in a fight. Derek had never seen one use a dirty trick to win and had never had to use a dirty trick to beat one. They were up front, easy going, and often times quite beautiful, he thought. This one was covered in tawny fur with big, solid patches of burnished red to match his horns.

            Derek flicked his eyes up to the crowd in the moment he had while the minotaur crossed to him. He spotted Stiles, dressed in white, sitting where he always sat. Stiles had told him that there was special seating for the wardens, with an unobstructed view of the fight, but it was in a location where the fighters couldn't see the wardens, so he always chose to sit in the stands instead.

            "Watch his left hand," Stiles said into Derek's ear through the com. "He swings the right but lashes with the left."

            "At least they don't carry hammers anymore," Derek said, softly enough it would be lost in the murmur of the crowd before it reached his opponent.

            Stiles chuckled. "I could sign you up for a weapons-class fight if you find yourself missing it."

            "You wouldn't," Derek said as he fell into a crouch, watching the minotaur approach. He walked rather than ran, his misty-blue eyes trained upon Derek with a sort of calm Derek rarely encountered in the pit.

            "You caught me," Stiles agreed. "Here we go. Give us a good five minute show, yeah?"

            "Yeah," Derek grumbled, ducking out of the way of the minotaur's first broad, sweeping swing. "Easy for you to say."

            "That's the spirit," Stiles told him. Derek snorted, wondering if Stiles always got like this while on the com, playful and sarcastic. He hoped so; he found he liked it, that it relaxed him.

            "Fast wolf," the minotaur intoned as he turned around on Derek. "Good fight."

            "See?" Stiles told him. "He agrees!"

            With an eye roll he knew Stiles couldn't see, Derek dropped to all fours, darting around to get behind the minotaur and snapping his jaws in a feint at one hoofed foot. The minotaur snarled, stomping heavily where Derek had just been standing, sending up a spray of sand and losing his footing. Derek took the opportunity to put distance between them, crossing the arena over to where the minotaur exited the pens.

            "He's up," Stiles said, and Derek wheeled around in time to see the bull-headed creature charging his way. There was no denying that the fights were easier, less stressful with Stiles acting as his guardian angel. "Get back toward center, I can't see you well where you are now."

            Almost less stressful, Derek thought as he spun away from the charge, kicked out at the side of the minotaur's ankle, and made a dash for the center of the arena. Stiles' praise flourished warm in Derek's chest, and he turned to face the minotaur once again.

            Three more minutes.

* * *

  _Division 3 wardens must be age_

_eighteen (18) or older_

* * *

 

            If there was one thing which surprised Derek to find he truly enjoyed, it was showers. Hot showers, piping hot, enough to wash away the feeling of blood on his skin, to wipe clean the memory of the sand beneath his feet. He could close his eyes and put his head beneath the spray and let the sound of all the pounding water overtake the echo of the cheering crowd until there was nothing left of his fight.

            A week ago, before his fight with the minotaur, Derek had tried to discover how much hot water there was. He knew it couldn't be infinite because something had to heat it, and heating water had to take time or else all the water in the spray pens would have been much warmer for much longer. But after a while his skin had started to get wrinkly and he'd given up.

            Stiles had done his best to cover up his laughter when Derek came to him, concerned that the water had somehow loosened his skin.

            Now Derek kept his showers closer to ten minutes and used the liquid soap that rinsed clean with little scent and stayed in the roomy stall until the redness of his skin healed and faded. Stiles had given him his own shaving tools and Derek used them almost daily to keep the scruff on his face at bay.

            When he was finished, he hung his towel up to dry like he'd been shown, dressed in soft clothes that hung comfortably loose, and donned the silver collar inscribed with Stiles' information before he left his room in search of Stiles. Derek had gotten used to locating his heartbeat within the manor, and this time it was easy.

            Derek poked his head into the library, gaze falling on Boyd standing by a squat machine that was throwing beams of light onto an open book from beneath a plastic cover. Stiles was hunched over a large, old tome, its pages yellowed and crackly as he turned one of the pages with great care. Derek waited until the page was out of Stiles' fingers before he knocked on the door frame.

            Both Boyd and Stiles looked up, though Boyd turned back to his task almost immediately. Stiles smiled gently and motioned for him to come in. "I don't want to interrupt," Derek said, eyes flicking to Boyd.

            "You're not," Stiles assured him. Derek was debating asking what exactly they were doing when Stiles volunteered: "We're just sorting through some of the stuff Scott brought with him for Boyd."

            Relief coursed through Derek like it always did when Stiles seemed to guess exactly what he was thinking. He skirted around the edge of the table and took the seat Stiles kicked out for him with one foot. "What is it?"

            "Records, mostly," Stiles said, shoving a small stack of papers Derek's way. There was no way Derek was going to try to puzzle out what they all said, but he saw _arena_ scrawled across the top of one. "Documents. History books no one wants us to have."

            "Why?" Derek asked, tipping his head a little.

            Stiles chuckled, shaking his head. "They say that history is written by the victors, you know? Well, I guess you don't, but it is. Whenever there's a war or something, whoever wins gets to tell the story of what happened. Usually because... they're the ones left alive."

            "No one unrelated can tell the story?" Derek asked, brows knitting. "Like the crowd at the arena?"

            "Well, there's not always a third party," Stiles said. He tapped the open pages of the book. "But sometimes there is. And sometimes, someone from the losing side survives long enough to record a little different perspective."

            Derek's eyes widened a little as he leaned over, taking in the tidy, tiny handwriting covering the pages of the tome in front of Stiles. There was enough script to tell many stories, and Derek began sounding out some of the words in his head. None of them sounded like any words he knew and he was about to ask what it said when Stiles saved him the trouble.

            "It's all about ancient arenas," Stiles told him. "This volume was actually written by a faun a few centuries ago, about the coliseums that had been set up to host battles between supernatural creatures and humans."

            "Humans?" Derek blurted out.

            "Yes!" Stiles said, sounding excited. Boyd stopped what he was doing to turn and look at them, finally taking an interest. "Boyd is actually writing a book about all of the differences in ancient area fighting and present day arena fighting."

            "I don't- how long has this-" Derek began, a little bewildered. He had always assumed that the arena fighting was more recent, that it only spanned a few generations of supernaturals. Stiles was implying it had gone on for _centuries_.

            "As near as we can tell, it's been a- a _sport_ since almost the dawn of humankind," Stiles said, splaying a hand over the pages. "This faun makes references to battles over a century before his own time, but never mentions a beginning. Arena fighting could span back into seriously ancient times."

            "With humans?" Derek reiterated, disbelieving.

            "Yeah, yeah, look here," Stiles said, lifting several of the large pages and turning them so they were faced with a section from earlier in the book. "Um, it's all Latin," Stiles said, which Derek figured explained why he couldn't understand anything he had sounded out before. "But basically this part here says: _the human David today was pitted against the giant Goliath. The Council allowed the human David to carry in a_ \- well, there's not really a word for it, but it's a slingshot - _for what could a toy do against a giant? The giant Goliath lays dead in the sands today._ "

            "These days, humans can still fight in the arena," Boyd added from across the room. "It's a different class in the Divisions, and pretty rare, but people can pay a lot of money to go into an arena with whatever super they want and have a showdown."

            Derek turned in his seat to look at Boyd. "Humans willingly fight in the pit?"

            "Yeah," Boyd confirmed before turning back to his machine. "It's mostly people who want to test their skills. They've all lost their damn marbles if you ask me."

            "The important thing is that it's switched now," Stiles interjected. "Hundreds of years ago, it was gladiators against supers. Somewhere along the line it became supers against supers instead. Here." He shoved away from the table and walked back into the shelves of the library.

            Derek listened to him muttering to himself as he brushed fingers over the spines of books. A moment later, Stiles returned, carrying a book that looked newly bound. When he dropped it on the table with a thunk, letting it fall open, the insides were full of ancient-looking text and pictures on what appeared to be clean, new paper. Stiles began flipping through pages until he found what he was looking for, then he rotated the book for Derek to see.

            On one page was an illustration in black and white, the white turned yellow with age, of a young woman sitting beneath a flowering tree. Laying beside her, with his head in her lap, lay an alpha-shifted werewolf. Her fingers were threaded in the ruff of fur around his ears, a book in her free hand and a soft smile on her face. They were obviously comfortable, enjoying time together on a nice day.

            "A fighter?" Derek asked, looking up to Stiles.

            "A companion," Stiles said, turning the book back to himself. "I'm not sure friends would fit, exactly." He ran his fingers delicately over the image, down to the caption at the bottom. "Maybe lovers, if the text is anything to go by. There are some words I haven't been able to translate."

            "What words?" Derek asked. Though he knew there was no chance he could know them, he found himself interested. This was a side of the arena he had never even heard of. Humans participating in the arena, supers living amongst humans as people; not once in any story told in the pit had any of this surfaced.

            "Uh, let's see," Stiles said, running a finger over the words until he came upon one. "Here. These words aren't classical Latin; I think they're either older or colloquial. Lydia says they translate to 'companion of the heart' but I've looked at ancient Latin translations and it's not quite the same."

            Under his breath, Derek sounded out the letters, and then glanced up to Stiles. "It sounds romantic."

            "You're so punny," Stiles said with a grin, though Derek cocked his head, not understanding. "Nevermind. Yeah, it's... endearing. It means way, way back in history, we knew supers were intelligent, and now we don't. It also means there was a time when humans and supers were at the very least friends, which is also not the case today, which means sometime along the way..."

            "They stopped," Derek concluded.

            "Mhm." Stiles sighed and snapped the book closed. Derek quashed his desire to ask for a copy of it, so that he could look through the pictures on his own. "It means something happened, but no one seems to know _what_."

            "Maybe it wasn't a _what_ ," Derek said, drawing back a little when both Stiles and Boyd put their full attention on him. He swallowed and clamped his jaw shut, wondering if he had done something wrong.

            "What do you mean?" Stiles asked, clearly concerned.

            "I mean..." Derek began, looking nervously between the two humans. "Well, your committee regulates everything here, right? All the registrations and who gets to fight and who doesn't. The um- the faun. It said the Council let David bring in a weapon. Maybe that was their committee."

            Stiles' eyes snapped down to the large tome still spread open on the table in front of him, and Boyd was at his side in an instant as they both began to reread the passages.

            "I'm just saying maybe... maybe it wasn't a _thing_ that changed so much as a _person_. Or people, I guess," Derek added. "If they controlled everything then like they do now, they could change whatever they wanted and people would have to go along with it."

            "Oh shit," Stiles breathed, looking up to Derek, then to Boyd, who gave a small, wide-eyed shrug. His gaze dropped back to Derek, who still wasn't sure he wasn't in trouble. "We've been so wrapped up in looking for an event; a skirmish, a death, a battle of some sort that was lost to time... and it's just been sitting in front of us the whole time. We've gotta-"

            He stood abruptly and Derek shoved his chair away from the table, springing to his feet as well. Stiles glanced at him as he spread his hands over the book, clearly debating whether he wanted to leave it open or not, and then he dismissed it all with a wave of his hands.

            "It's fine, I'll take care of this later," Stiles said, skirting around Derek and leaving Boyd with all of the new reading material. "I'm going to call Scott and tell him. This could be- this could change a lot. This could- Boyd, keep copying that book, get both of them copied so I can send them back. Derek, just- thank you. Thanks. You're amazing."

            Flushing in embarrassment at the sudden praise, Derek raised both eyebrows at the earnest tone and watched Stiles disappear from the library. He turned to look at Boyd, who pursed his lips and then indicated the machine he had been working with when Derek entered.

            "You want to learn how to use a photocopier?"

 

* * *

  _Any Division 3 match which_

_reaches the two hour limit_

_shall be considered a draw_

* * *

 

            It began as humming, under his breath and barely audible. He didn't notice when it got louder, or when he started to mouth the words to the song, as his attention was absorbed in sorting through the photocopied pages of paper spread out on the desk in his room. Boyd had been kind enough to copy all of the pictures from the book Stiles had shown him, the ones of humans and supernatural creatures interacting.

            His favorite was still the one with the wolf asleep in the maiden's lap. He left it on top of the stack, eyes roaming over the artistic marks, over the soft expression on the woman's face as she read. The wolf was relaxed, chin on her thigh, body curled up close to her. It was nice, Derek thought, to imagine a time when humans and supers could be so close, so comfortable with one another. He couldn't help the smile that snuck onto his lips or the warmth in his chest.

            If he thought about how much he would like to have something so warm and easy with Stiles, it was not something he would have admitted aloud.

            So instead, he let the happy feeling bubble out of him in the form of notes to the song, humming and then mouthing the words, until finally he was singing it to himself as he spread the drawings out to start looking at them from the beginning again.

            "That's a good song," came Stiles' voice from the doorway, startling Derek to his feet.

            Guiltily, he swept the pages into a pile and turned them over, unsure whether he was allowed to have them. He didn't want Boyd to get in trouble for giving them to him, either. "Sorry," Derek said quickly. "I wasn't- I didn't mean to disturb you. I can be quiet."

            "It's fine," Stiles assured him, remaining in the doorway. "I just came to see if you might consider changing the tune. There's only so many times I can listen to the alphabet song before it gets stuck in my head."

            Stiles was grinning, the sort of expression that said it really was okay, and Derek relaxed a little. "It's um- it's the only song I know," Derek admitted.

            "Seriously?" Stiles said, straightening up from where he leaned on the door frame.

            "I used to know another, one my mom sang to us to fall asleep," Derek said. "But that was a lifetime ago. I don't really remember the tune anymore."

            With a whistle, Stiles shook his head. "Wow. I'm sorry for failing you like this," he said, so sincerely that Derek wondered if Stiles actually had done something he could get into trouble for. "If you've got some time, I'd like to play some music for you. Everyone should have music."

            Derek threw a glance down at the papers on the desk, but decided that they would be there when he returned. As far as he could tell, no one entered his bedroom unless he was in it. "Okay," he agreed.

            The music room, as Stiles called it, turned out to be down in the basement of the manor. One of the basements, Stiles explained, because there were two more used for other things. Wine in one, which Derek knew was some sort of prized drink, and entertainment for the other. Derek didn't ask what qualified as _entertainment_ for a human who regularly attended and participated in battling supernatural creatures against one another to the death.

            "I'm going to close the door," Stiles said, as he gently pushed the door closed behind them. "But it won't be locked."

            Derek nodded, too absorbed in looking all around him at the shelves and shelves of containers. Some of them were big and slender, some of them were small and fat. The smell of something tangy and acidic mixed with the scent of plastic was nearly overwhelming. "Is this all songs?" he asked softly.

            "Yeah," Stiles said with a faint smile, moving farther into the room. "I didn't buy all of it or anything. My friends come by to hang out here sometimes, and they bring new stuff or old stuff, anything that I don't already have. They all have different tastes, so we'll try a little bit of everything!"

            Derek watched Stiles begin to pull out little containers, making a pile in his arms. He hadn't been aware there were different kinds of music, but he was very interested to see Stiles release it from the containers and what it would sound like when he did. He was even more interested in how Stiles intended to put it back in, but he decided to simply observe instead of asking questions.

            Crossing the room, Stiles dumped his pile of containers on a table and pulled a square device with a lid over to himself. Under the clear lid, there was a round, flat disk with little metal arm that sat next to it. Stiles blew gently on it, and then lifted one of the largest, thinnest containers. He pulled a flat, black disk from within the paper sleeve.

            "This is called a vinyl record," Stiles explained as he fit the disk onto the device. Carefully, he turned it on and as the record began to spin, he lifted the arm and set the tip of the needle onto the disk.

            Derek startled, whipping around to try to find the source of the crackling that burst into the room. It was followed by peppy notes of music and a man began to sing. Derek tracked the noise to several round speakers peppered throughout the room. When he looked back, Stiles was leaning on his hip against the table, grinning.

            "This is Elvis," Stiles told him over the song, pointing to the speaker. "He's really famous. He's also really dead. But he left behind some great music!"

            Willing his heart to calm, Derek focused on the words of the song. It was about dogs, and sounded a little upset, which must have shown on Derek's face because Stiles changed the song to another. This one was much softer, much slower, with drawn out words about love. He could hear Stiles' heartbeat speed up a little but when he looked, Stiles was only watching him with a small smile.

            "He sang a lot of songs," Stiles told him. "I like this one, but we can find someone else for you."

            The record crackled when Stiles removed the needle, the sound cutting out abruptly. Stiles shooed Derek into one of the arm chairs in the room before he replaced the Elvis record with another.

            That was how they spent their day. Derek learned the difference between records and cassette tapes and CDs was, and Stiles showed him a computer that had all of the music in his collection recorded to it so that all someone had to do was click on a song to hear it play. He let Derek have control of what played for a while, and Stiles named various instruments he could hear playing when Derek found the classical music section.

            "That's Lydia's section," Stiles told him. "She tells me that math can be turned into music, but I don't see it. She's kind of a genius."

            "Why does she work for the Argents?" Derek asked, turning in his chair after selecting a new song.

            Stiles rolled his eyes, shrugging one shoulder as if he'd given up bothering with the whole thing. "Her best friend is Allison Argent."

            "The youngest," Derek said. He'd only met her a couple of times, and she always looked at him with her brows knit and her lips pursed. Every time he thought maybe she would have something to say to him, but she never spoke while she was in the kennel. The most he knew about her was her scent; always distressed, always confused, hurting.

            "Yeah," Stiles confirmed. "She's not like the others though. She's- well, she had her dark days after her mom was killed by a fighter that escaped. She was dating Scott, they'd been dating since high school, she'd stayed with him after he got bit... but I really thought we'd lose her after her mom."

            "But?" Derek prompted, foot tapping along in time to the music he was no longer really listening to.

            "But, she figured it out," Stiles said. "She loves Scott. For a while, she was hanging out around here, Lydia was coming over every day. Isaac and Erica and Boyd all just kept steady, everyone tried to remind her that she can't set her rules by one exception, no matter how bad it was."

            Derek made a low noise of surprise. "She's still there. Living with her family."

            "Yeah," Stiles said. "It's not forever. I think she'll move in with Scott eventually, help him with his cause. Start protecting the people who can't protect themselves. But for right now, she's better where she's at, giving us an in with the Argents."

            "She's their in with you, too," Derek pointed out softly.

            Stiles chuckled. "We know," he said, shrugging. "Not much we can do if she wants to tell them all about us... but I don't think she will. She's a good person."

            Derek wasn't convinced, but he was willing to trust Stiles' judgment on the matter, as Stiles hadn't been wrong yet. They both let the conversation drop and Derek went to change the song again. He was enjoying himself, sounding out the words that formed the song's title or singer. He had devised a game in his head, where he would read the title and try to guess what the song was about. His suspicion that humans were very strange creatures was again confirmed after the number of times he lost the game.

            A loud knock to the door interrupted them a short while later, and Erica poked her head in. "Everyone alive?" she called.

            "In the back!" Stiles responded, not bothering to get up from where he was lounging sideways in one of the arm chairs, a pile of CDs on his lap. He'd been reading the inserts inside of the cases while they listened to music.

            Derek's stomach grumbled at him as soon as he saw the plastic tray Erica carried in both hands. "Figured you two might be hungry," she said as she used the tray to shove stuff aside on the table before setting it down. "Harvelle sent a bunch of food, I'm not sure how many armies he thinks you two are, but good luck."

            "Thank you, Erica," Stiles said. "What would I do without you?"

            "Crash and burn?" Erica quipped with a smile.

            "We have that song," Derek said. Both Stiles and Erica turned to look at him with raised brows, so he shrugged. "I saw it on the list."

            "Clever," Erica told him, then turned back to Stiles. "If you and Derek feel like emerging from your lair any time tonight, we were planning on putting a movie in and hanging out. Isaac's making popcorn."

            Stiles looked over to Derek, but Derek didn't have any idea what a movie was. He assumed popcorn was a type of food and he was never opposed to trying new food. So, he shrugged, acquiescing to the suggestion.

            "Sure," Stiles said. "What time?"

           "They're picking now. That gives you two a little time to wrap this up." She motioned to the mess they had made of the music room, the floor and table littered with CD and cassette cases.

            "Yeah, whatever, I can make a mess in my own house," Stiles told her, sticking out his tongue as she made a face at him. Laughing, she dodged when he kicked slowly at her hip to push her toward the door. "Get out of here."

            "Of course! I'm sure you two want to be left alone," she chimed happily as she began heading for the exit. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do!"

            "That's a short list!" Stiles shouted after her, but his cheeks were flushed with a tinge of red along his jawline and Derek didn't miss the way he looked studiously back down to the CDs in his lap instead of meeting Derek's eyes after the door closed behind the handler.

            "We don't have to go," Derek offered, not sure what had put Stiles off, exactly. "If you'd rather stay here and do this. I like music. I don't know what a movie is."

            That got Stiles' attention. "You don't- of course you don't. I'm an idiot," he said, starting to stack the CD cases so that he could get to his feet from under them. "I'm really sorry."

            "It's okay, Stiles," Derek told him, straightening the items on the table even though he had no idea how they were supposed to be organized. "The world's really huge, right? You can't show it to me all at once."

            "I guess not," Stiles said, though it was clear he still felt guilty. He rolled to his feet with his stack of CD cases and began shelving them back in the appropriate locations. "But music and movies? We're three fights in, you've been here almost two months. You should have had these things way sooner."

            Derek let him finish shelving his stack and turn around to face him before he raised his eyebrows. "I'm going to wait to blame you until after I find out if a movie is any good," he said.

            A smile burst onto Stiles' face. "Did you just make a joke?"

            "Maybe?" Derek's ears flushed a little and he ducked his head. "Is that okay?"

            "That's _fantastic_ ," Stiles said. "C'mon, you can leave the rest of that stuff on the table and we'll take the food with us."

            They left behind the rest of the clean up and Derek carried the tray of food along with them to the next basement over. Along the way Stiles rushed ahead and held open all the doors and studiously watched the tray in Derek's hands as if willing it to stay upright and behave. It was strangely endearing to Derek, mostly because he had already mastered the art of carrying the trays around the manor.

            The others were waiting in the second basement, the one that Stiles had told Derek was for _entertainment_. There were couches and chairs and large, lumpy-looking balls piled into the room, across from a huge screen that had moving pictures on it. There were a couple of arenas Derek had been to which had screens like that, to play a larger version of what was happening down in the pit. This screen didn't have an arena fight; it had cars, gliding smoothly along a road in the mountains.

            Erica waved to them when they entered but she didn't get up from where she was lounging on one of the couches, her legs across Boyd's lap. The lump balls were apparently some form of chair, for both Isaac and Cora were half-buried in one apiece. Harvelle got up from one of the arm chairs in order to pull a small, knee-high table over to another couch so that Derek could put the tray down. There were a few others in the room that Derek either didn't recognize or hadn't learned their names, though all of them greeted both him and Stiles when they entered.

            "Popcorn's by the door," Erica said. "And we have it narrowed down to two choices; _Breakfast Club_ or _Alien_."

            Picking up one of the bowls of fluffy looking food by the entrance, Stiles shook his head. "You all have the most eclectic taste in movies. Go with breakfast club."

            "Chicken," Isaac said from the lumpy chair. "I told you he'd pick that, pay up." He held up one hand to Erica, who rolled her eyes and passed him a small, greenish-yellow piece of paper.

            Derek watched the exchange and then looked to Stiles, who just shrugged and passed him the bowl of food. "I like to pretend they aren't making bets about my behavior," Stiles told him, motioning to the couch.

            While Stiles grabbed a thin plastic container from Erica, Derek settled onto one side of the couch and tested out one of the popcorn pieces. It was salty and buttery and crunchy, pleasantly so, and Derek tried a few more pieces before complimenting Isaac on making it. Isaac turned to look at him with a slightly cocked head, and Derek realized it was the first time he'd voluntarily spoken to one of the handlers first.

            "Thanks," Isaac said. "It's pretty easy to make if you want to learn."

            "Oi," Harvelle interjected. "One of you in my kitchen's enough!"

            Isaac laughed, and Derek decided it was a joke, so he smiled at Harvelle. Whatever Stiles was doing made the screen change to black. Everyone turned their attention to it, and Derek watched Stiles toss a rectangular device into Isaac's lap.

            "Work your magic!" Stiles commanded lightly, crossing to flick off the lights and take a seat next to Derek on the other side of the couch. Though he wasn't certain, he had begun to think that there was a difference between true orders and the suggestive orders humans often traded.

            After Isaac pressed a few buttons on the device Stiles had given him - a _remote_ , Stiles told him when he asked - the screen lit up with moving pictures again. This time there were people instead of cars, mostly young humans, interacting with one another. The camera kept changing angles and Derek noticed very quickly that time was passing irregularly.

            "It's a recording," Stiles explained quietly. "Those are people pretending to be other people, so they can show us a story someone made up. Then more people record it to film, and put it all together into a movie."

            "It's not _real_?" Derek asked, looking to the screen.

            "They're real people," Stiles assured him. "They're just acting out a pretend story."

            For a little while, Derek watched the humans pretending to be other humans, and thought that it was sort of strange and a little silly. The farther along it went, though, the more absorbed in the story Derek became, until he found himself actually concerned about the welfare of the young humans. Despite that he reminded himself it was not real, he felt a certain amount of relief to think that they might remain friends.

            When the screen went black and words began to scroll up it, Cora got up to turn on the lights. "Are you going to watch another?" she asked, looking around for a consensus.

            Harvelle clambered to his feet. "I'm up early for breakfast, so I'll pass." The others in the room seemed to share the sentiment as they gathered up whatever was around them and began to head out.

            "Me too," Boyd said, yawning. "We're cleaning pens tomorrow morning."

            Isaac groaned and sunk down into his seat. "Ugh, don't remind me. Not-It for cleaning the chimera pen."

            Erica tossed a decorative pillow at his head and Harvelle skirted around the small battle. "I love when you volunteer to hold Az!" she exclaimed.

            Cursing, Isaac threw the pillow back. "Is it too late to change my decision?"

            "Way too late," Boyd said, watching Isaac roll out of the chair and onto his feet. He gently slid Erica's feet from his lap and then turned to hold out a hand to help her up. She groaned, but accepted his offer. "Goodnight," Boyd told them, nodding to Stiles.

            "Night guys," Stiles chirped happily. "If you need help, let me know."

            "We haven't needed help in years," Erica said as they passed, sticking out her tongue at Stiles.

            "That's debatable," Stiles shot back, mirroring the gesture. Isaac and Boyd both laughed, but Erica just rolled her eyes. Derek wondered what the joke was.

            Eventually the room had emptied, Cora staying until last to say good night to Derek. Stiles hadn't indicated that he had any intention of leaving, so Derek stayed where he was, comfortable with his bowl of mostly-eaten popcorn. When the door was finally shut behind Cora, Stiles looked to Derek and tipped his head.

            "You want to watch another? I'm not really ready to sleep," Stiles admitted.

            "Okay," Derek agreed. "What is _Alien_?"

            "A movie about some humans in outer space who encounter a creature from outer space that wants to kill them all," Stiles said. "It's... not good for a bedtime movie."

            Derek tipped his head. "Is there not enough violence and death in the arena?" he asked softly. "Humans create stories about it as well, and act them out for other humans to see?"

            Looking over, Stiles pursed his lips in a little frown, but Derek could tell he was considering the idea. He thought maybe it had never occurred to Stiles to look at movies in that light. Maybe it didn't occur to any humans, if they just grew up watching movies about things that weren't real. Maybe that was part of why the arena fights continued uncontested; humans were used to watching violent things that were not real.

            "Yeah," Stiles said after a few moments. "It's sort of terrible when you put it like that, isn't it?"

            Derek nodded, searching Stiles' concerned expression for any amount of falsehood. He found none, and so he shrugged a little. "I don't think it can be helped," he said. "But maybe we should watch something else. More _Breakfast Club_."

            At that, Stiles chuckled, breathy and short. "I think that's all the _Breakfast Club_ there is. But I'm sure I can find some peaceful stories."

            He got up, ejecting a disk from the machine. Derek surmised that that it was not a CD, which Stiles confirmed absently as he began combing through the disk cases on the walls. He pulled out half a dozen movies and presented them to Derek, allowing him to pick the next movie. Once it was in, he settled down across the couch again, though he snuggled down into the corner and stretched one leg out toward Derek.

            They ended up watching three more movies. By halfway through the second one, Derek had readjusted on the couch, slouching down some and pulling both feet up onto the soft cushion. Stiles had turned completely on the couch, the tips of his toes buried in the crack between Derek's cushion and the middle cushion. His eyes were drooping and his heartbeat slowing by partway through the third movie, and Derek found himself watching Stiles more than the screen.

            He was fascinating, Derek found himself thinking, watching Stiles pick his head up for the fifth time in as many minutes. He was nodding off, trying his best to stay awake. It warmed something within Derek, something soft and unfamiliar. His eyes traced the pattern of tiny, dark spots on Stiles' cheeks and jaw, lost track of them where they trailed beneath the collar of his shirt, leaving Derek to wonder what pattern they made on the rest of his skin. The beat of Stiles' heart was heavy in his ears, slow and comforting, his own heart matching the steady rhythm until it was all one.

            Eyes closing, Derek touched gently upon the feelings Stiles inspired in him, wondering what exactly he was supposed to do with them. Whatever else Stiles was, he was still human. He still pitted intelligent creatures against one another, let them fight until death claimed one of them. He knew better, knew they were intelligent, and maybe that was worse than the people who thought they were just dumb monsters.

            But he was trying to change things, too, and maybe that made him better. Maybe it didn't matter, Derek thought, eyes tracking over the curve of Stiles' jaw, the slope of his nose, the way his lashes rested against his cheeks now that he'd given up the battle to stay awake. Maybe the affection burrowing claws into Derek's heart wouldn't care if Stiles knew or not. Maybe it wouldn't make a difference to him, as long as Stiles stayed nearby with that gentle tone and touch.

            He wondered, as he sat in the darkness as text began to scroll across the screen, what it would feel like if he could sit with Stiles like the werewolf in the picture. If he gave himself over to a full-wolf shift, he wondered if Stiles would still touch him, let Derek lay his head in his lap and sleep. He wondered, in the safety of the quiet darkness, if Stiles would do as the maiden and thread those long, slender fingers into Derek's fur, stroke along his soft ears.

            Derek's breath shuddered a little as he inhaled, following the line of Stiles' body with his eyes until they rested upon his feet, still tucked between the cushions, close enough to touch. Erica and Boyd had sat close like that, with Erica's legs resting atop Boyd's lap. During the first movie, Derek had seen Boyd kneading her feet with both hands, and she seemed to enjoy it.

            Everything was so much more _gentle_ with these humans and Derek couldn't help but want to know how far that went, whether they were gentle in all aspects of their lives. When they touched one another, they never seemed to want to cause hurt. Even when Erica and Isaac had thrown pillows at one another, the objects were soft, unable to cause any real harm.

            "Hey," Stiles murmured, drawing Derek's eyes back to his face. A sleepy smile spread over his lips. He lifted one foot and nudged at Derek's hip with his toes, an almost playful gesture. "Were you just gonna let us sleep here?"

            "No," Derek said honestly, listening to the sudden asynchronous beats of their hearts now that Stiles was awake. He didn't like it. "But I'd be okay sleeping here, with you."

            The low, pleased hum that bubbled up from Stiles' chest tingled under Derek's skin. "Just sleeping?" he asked, voice still thick and heavy with sleep. His toes were warm against Derek's hip, the faint scent of arousal just barely in the air between them coloring his words.

            "You want more," Derek said softly, not quite an accusation. There was certainly no heat behind it, surprising him.

            "Yeah," Stiles admitted, before yawning. He chuckled as it tapered off, squinting his eyes shut. "If you're interested." He sat up a little when he said it, fixing Derek with an acute stare that said he'd realized perhaps Derek _wasn't_. "I mean, you don't have to- I don't want- obviously it's up to you."

            "Obviously," Derek murmured. His eyes flicked up to meet Stiles'. "And if I say no?"

            A breathy laugh escaped Stiles but Derek could hear the way it broke around the edges, stressed. "I usually handle rejection with a half-bottle of Jack and some particularly poor purchasing decisions," he said.

            Derek's brows crinkled, confused. "What?"

            Dismissing the joke with a shake of his head, Stiles said: "It's nothing. If you say no, then... that's it." He looked down, picking at his thumbnail. "I'll go to bed with a bit of bruised ego, maybe, but nothing bad will happen to you, Derek."

            "Or Cora?" Derek asked. Of course he knew that Stiles wouldn't hurt Cora, especially after seeing the hurt that flashed in Stiles' eyes at the suggestion, but a part of Derek needed to remind Stiles just how much power he had and how often power like his had been used for harm.

            "Or Cora," Stiles promised. "I'm not going to take something away or hurt either of you or punish you somehow. I told you when we met that I wasn't going to force you to do anything- that's still true. You still get to say no."

            On some level, Derek knew what he wanted, and it wasn't to tell Stiles no to anything he asked. He wanted to bury his nose in the crook of Stiles' shoulder, breathe him in, listen to the sound of their hearts. He wanted to press his fingertips to all of Stiles' little, dark spots, map them out so he would never forget them. He wanted to learn what made Stiles tick, to take him apart and find out why he did the things he did.

            Every time he touched upon those thoughts, though, he could hear Kate's voice, her lips pulled back in a grin more feral than anything in the pit, her breath warm on his ear whispering _good boy_. He could feel the bite of wolfsbane-threaded ropes, the gag to keep his teeth from getting too close, the wet stripe of her tongue up his torso.

            There was never a chance to say no to her.

            He _needed_ that from Stiles; more than saying yes, more than giving in to what he wanted, he needed to have _no_.

            "Then... no," Derek said at last, chest constricting as if trying to take back the words. His eyes slid closed as Stiles pulled his foot back, just enough to not be touching Derek anymore. "I'm sorry."

            "You've nothing to apologize for," Stiles told him, forcing a smile before tipping his head back to rest against the arm of the couch, exposing the long column of his neck. He let out an amused little puff. "If anything, I should be apologizing for misreading you."

            "You haven't," Derek said quietly, glancing askew at Stiles to gauge his reaction. There was no reason to look, however, as the quickening of his heart gave away his surprise. "Misread me, I mean."

            The click of Stiles' throat as he swallowed was so loud in the silence. "Oh," he said softly.

            Derek didn't know what to say after that, and it didn't look like Stiles was any better off. He wanted to reach out, lay a hand on Stiles as he had never yet done, but he kept his hands folded in his lap. After a little while, Stiles got up from his seat and crossed the room to remove their latest movie. He replaced it on the shelf, heart beating a little too fast, and then turned back to Derek, his smile not quite reaching his eyes.

            "Goodnight, Derek," he said. "I'll see you in the morning."

            "Goodnight, Stiles," Derek echoed, guilt and desire at war in his chest as he watched the door close behind the human. He let his head drop back against the couch with a sigh.


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

 

* * *

_A humanoid game piece shall be defined_

_as any class of supernatural creature_

_which shares at least 75%_

_of its base form with humans_

* * *

 

            Stiles poked his head around Derek's open door when his soft knock produced no answer at all. It was later than usual for Derek to be sleeping, which was not surprising considering their long night watching movies together, but Stiles had hoped to find him before he left for the barn to help his handlers clean and tend the supers. They didn't _need_ his help, but he enjoyed spending time with the creatures while the others cleaned. He thought that regularly having gentle contact with humans made the wilder supers a little easier to handle.

            At first glance, Derek's room seemed empty. The bed was made, though the comforter was rumpled just enough to look like someone had been laying on top of it. Stiles was  about to turn and leave when he caught sight of a foot sticking out from beneath the bed. Brow knitting, he moved into the room, head tipping as he tried to make sense of it.

            "Derek?" he called.

            A solid thunk resounded from beneath the bed and the foot disappeared. Stiles choked on a laugh trying to keep quiet, covering his mouth with one hand as he listened to Derek mumble to himself, rooting around beneath the bed. After a moment, Derek stilled and silence descended.

            "Stiles?"

            "What on Earth are you doing under the bed?" Stiles gasped, unable to keep himself under control.

            Derek peeked over the edge of the bed on the far side, hair standing up at weird angles. "Sleeping," he said, squinting at the brightness of the sunlight and rubbing his head where he’d bumped it.

            "Under the bed?" Stiles asked, hiding a smile.

            Derek looked down, as if determining that was indeed what he'd been doing, before he looked back up to Stiles. "Yes."

            "Okay." Stiles glanced between Derek and the bed, trying to remember if he had actually told Derek how to _use_ a bed. He had figured it was obvious, that Derek had understood because he had seen Derek sitting on the bed before, and because he remembered Derek having a mat at the Argent’s estate. If he was sleeping beneath it, however, perhaps it wasn't. "You do know you're supposed to sleep on top of it, right?"

            "I know," Derek said, skin flushing as he looked away, shoulders hunching a little. "It's high- I feel like I'll fall. I'm not used to sleeping on something so open... or soft."

            Stiles blinked, taking that in, touching back upon his memories of Derek's kennel at the Argent's. The mat in the corner hadn't been too thin to provide any amount of relief from the cement floor, but it hadn't exactly been thick. Guilt needled at him for not considering how that might have affected Derek's sleeping habits and he took a deep breath, trying to sort out what to do to fix it.

            "Okay," he said finally, nodding and moving toward the bed.

            Derek stared at him as he approached and when Stiles laid his hands on the mattress, Derek scrambled out from beneath the bed and onto his feet. "What are you doing?"

            "Fixing it," Stiles said simply.

            He gave a solid push to the mattress, watching it slide along the box spring underneath. It was heavier than he expected, and he remembered that the guest bedrooms had older mattresses because they weren't slept on as often as the main rooms. For a moment, as he shoved at the mattress, he considered ordering in a new mattress, a better one, until he remembered what Derek had said about even this one being too soft.

            He didn't miss the confused look on Derek's face as the mattress fell with a whump to the ground at his feet. Stiles could pinpoint the second it dawned on Derek what was happening, that Stiles had just solved one of Derek's issues with the bed; he could now sleep on the ground, without feeling like he would fall.

            "It'll go faster if you help," Stiles pointed out as he skirted around the bottom of the bed frame.

            Derek backed out of his way as he walked to the far edge of the mattress, bending down to tug at it until it began to scoot across the floor. Stiles very nearly toppled over when Derek finally decided to join in, pushing with supernatural strength against the opposite side. Together they managed to transport the mattress across the room and into one of the corners.

            "There," Stiles declared. "Closer to the ground, and a bit more enclosed. I can have a privacy wall brought up tonight as well, so you can close this off even more if you want."

            When there was no response from Derek, Stiles turned to find him just staring at the bed as if it had come to life. Stiles wondered, not for the first time, if anyone had ever done anything nice for Derek before he arrived. He wondered whether anyone, even once, had considered Derek's comfort; he wondered if _Derek_ had ever considered _his own_ comfort. Sometimes Stiles didn't think so, not with the way Derek seemed to marvel at each simple moment like this.

            "Thank you," Derek said quietly, glancing sidelong at Stiles.

            A smile twitched at one corner of Stiles' mouth. "You're welcome, Derek," he said. "I wish you had told me about this sooner, though. We could have made something a little less... haphazard." With a chuckle, he motioned to the pile of bed and bedding they had created.

            "You want me to tell you when something is wrong," Derek said slowly, as if it were just now dawning on him, or maybe that he needed to make sure that was what Stiles was saying. He was harder to read some days than others.

            "Yeah," Stiles said. "I want things to be easy for you here."

            Derek's nose wrinkled a little, the tips of his ears flushing pink. "You're going to ask me to kill people to gain some measure of human freedom, so that others can have the opportunity to do the same. I don't think where I sleep really matters."

            There was no anger in the words, no sort of accusation, but it still cut deep. Stiles clenched his jaw shut for a moment. There was nothing to say to that; Derek was right. There was nothing about their situation that was going to be easy for either of them, but Stiles had no doubts that Derek had it much worse. Even if Stiles did everything in his power to give Derek the best odds possible, there was still a good chance he would end up as just another carcass carried out of the arena building in a flame-red box.

            Whether his mattress was on or off the bed, whether he slept on it or under it or someplace else entirely, Stiles knew it wouldn't make a different once the gates opened.

            "Maybe," he breathed out at last. "But that doesn't mean you don't try to make things better where you can."

            Derek nodded once, watching Stiles in that quiet, calculating way that made Stiles feel like Derek, for all his inexperience in the world, knew far more about people than Stiles did. In particular, more about _Stiles_ , and the idea made him fidget uncomfortably. Then he took a breath, and rolled one shoulder in a shrug.

            "It's hard not having control of things in your life," Derek said. Guilt prickled at Stiles' skin at the subtle reminder that until Derek had come here, he'd had no control over anything in his life. "Right?"

            Sighing, Stiles dragged his gaze up. "Yes," he admitted. "I don't have any control over what happens to you once the gates open. I don't get to say whether you fight or go free; that decision is higher up on the food chain than I am. But I want to give you as much freedom, as much _control_ , as I can."

            "Like last night?" Derek asked. It didn't have the heat Stiles expected, but there was a underlying hurt to the tone, the sort of chronic hurt that had just become a part of life. Stiles hated hearing it in Derek's voice.

            "Last night-" Stiles began, then caught himself. "I'm sorry about last night. You aren't here for that- you were never here for that."

            Derek's jaw clenched and he nodded once. "I'm not angry," he said, looking away. "You let me say no."

            "Of course I did," Stiles said, brows knitting as his gaze narrowed, not sure what that was supposed to mean.

            "I mean, you gave me _control_ ," Derek told him, and Stiles thought that seeing it in that light made it easier to understand why Derek wasn't blaming him. Derek sighed. "I know you're trying, but I just don't know any of this out here. I know the pit. I know fighting, and I know waiting, and I know obedience. And you... you confuse me. You've been rattling my cage since we met."

            "I'm sorry," Stiles said, though it felt exasperated. He wanted to say it a thousand more times, but he wasn't sure that it would help. What had been done to Derek, if it was half what Stiles suspected had been done to him over the years, was so far beyond being healed by an apology. "I can leave you alone, if you'd prefer."

            It wasn't something that he wanted to offer. He enjoyed Derek's company, loved watching him light up when he discovered something he liked. He liked finding ways to get him to talk, though he still spoke in clipped sentences more often than not. He was a puzzle, one that Stiles desperately wanted to piece together to see the whole picture. However, he knew that pushing into Derek's space, physical or mental, was not going to go well for either of them. If leaving Derek alone helped him to cope with everything the world could be outside of the arena, then Stiles would leave him alone.

            "No," Derek said. "I think I've had enough being alone to last a lifetime."

            Stiles smiled. "Okay." Taking a deep breath, he looked over to the odd mattress nest, and then back to Derek. "Do you want to come help me fetch the privacy wall for your bed?"

            "Den," Derek said quietly. "We would call it a den."

            "Your den, then," Stiles echoed, expression softening.

            "Yes," Derek admitted, a smile twitching at his lips. "I would like that."

 

* * *

_The victorious warden of a Division 3 match_

_shall receive from the house their entrance fee plus 3%_

_of the house division earnings for the match date_

* * *

 

            Derek's foot slipped in the sand, sending him sprawling onto all fours as the harpy lashed out at him from above, an unholy scream echoing around the pit. It missed by a hair's breadth as he rolled, and then he was on his feet again, claws out and ready. The creature was already back in the air, climbing for another strike. He hated flight-capable fighters.

            "Head left," came Stiles' voice in his ear. "Bring her around to the wall, she can’t get close enough to you along it."

            He risked a quick glance up and then dropped to all fours to sprint. She followed, whipping around on him. "I can't get much distance," he grated out.

            The arena was specific to Division 3 fighting and thus was smaller than other, cross-Division arenas because it only had to host humanoid battles. The harpy barely had any room to maneuver, limited mainly to rise-and-dives. Derek found himself thankful she couldn’t pull anything like Negira’s moves here. At the same time, having the space to get away from a flier was almost essential to a win.

            "You can get enough," Stiles told him. "Dodge left flank!"

            Derek reacted without question, throwing himself to the right as the harpy flung herself down at him, talons snapping forward and closing on air where he had just been. "Thanks," he said as he veered to the right to stay running along the wall. Stiles was right; against the wall there wasn’t enough space for her to maintain flight; she would have to land if she wanted a fight. If she dove, she would have to use the wall to get airborne again.

            “She’s diving,” Stiles said, and Derek threw himself down into the sand. Claws scrabbled at stone above him, the furious flapping of her wings filling the air as she tried to recover from the botched stoop and launch herself back into the air. He rolled over in time to see her launch herself from the wall, screaming at him, but his own lashing claws missed her ankle by a fraction of an inch.

            “How am I supposed to get first blood if she won’t land?” Derek snarled, scrambling to his feet to turn and face her. He could see her golden eyes tracking him, see by the quick, bird-like tilts of her sharp, angular head that she was calculating another dive already. Flattening himself to the floor wouldn’t work a second time. Like Negira, she would factor the move into a second dive toward the wall.

            “The gates,” Stiles suggested. “They have texture.”

            “What, like climb them?” He glanced dubiously to the gates lining the walls of the arena as he ran. Behind them lay the pens of the other supers waiting to fight. The hairs on his arms and neck stood up at the thought of going to them before the end of a fight. He remembered too well how that had ended the first and only time he’d done so, and the electrical burns that went so deep they hadn’t healed for days.

            “It sounds worse when you say it aloud. Incoming,” Stiles warned.

            Derek tensed and, without looking up, dashed for the center of the arena. He heard her claws shred at the wall as she pushed away again. He wondered if her claws would dull if she did that enough times. There wasn’t going to be time to find out.

            His hands hit the dry sand at the center of the arena, sending it spraying up around him. This time he didn’t lose his footing, but he did hesitate. The sand was almost never dry like that. They sprayed the pits down early every day, keeping the sand moist so fighters wouldn’t sink or slide in it as Derek had done earlier.

            An angry screech echoed above the roar of the crowd and he didn’t need Stiles’ _she’s coming, Derek_ in his ear to know. Without answering, he hunkered down, head tipped to catch the sound of her passing, the click of her talons as she readied them. He buried his hands in the sand, waiting.

            As soon as she was close enough, Derek whipped around and threw both handfuls of sand at her face. It was bad form, and he knew it, and she knew it. Even the crowd knew it, as the cheering dipped down into a low noise of disapproval. He flung himself out of the way as she crashed into the ground where he had been, wings and talons flailing to right herself.

            For a moment, just a couple of heartbeats, Derek watched her panic, waited for a pattern of movement to emerge, until she had found her footing enough to fall still but not enough to rise, and then he struck.

            His claws came away bloody, and he held them up, light glittering off the sticky blue liquid.

            A tone sounded, signaling the end of the match.

            “Match to Warden Stilinski via Ashborn,” a flat voice announced into the quiet.

            The crowd burst into cheers as Derek turned around, seeking Stiles’ white suit. “Nicely done,” murmured Stiles into his ear. Derek flushed warm at the note of pride. “Derek!”

            He heard the rustle behind him the moment before he felt talons sinking viciously into his back. He heard more than felt the ribs she snapped as she clamped down, wings coming to mantle over him like a hawk on a kill. Sound hollowed out, but he was sure he screamed when she released him, intending to shred at him again. He was quicker, bringing his feet up and raking down her chest with his claws in an attempt to dislodge him.

            She snapped at him, her screech a distant noise, and the last thing he saw was one of her talons, curled into a ball.

            He felt it hit his temple, and then there was only blackness.

 

* * *

_Arenas shall be required to provide_

_and maintain an on-site veterinary clinic_

_for the treatment of injured game pieces_

* * *

 

            The muffled sound of voices filtered through the darkness. Derek’s head was pounding and he didn’t want to open his eyes but he needed information. He wasn’t where he last remembered being; he was laying on something cold and hard instead of damp arena sand. He could feel the skin of his back knitting together, slowly but surely, beneath the scratch of rough clinic bandages.

            He had survived.

            The harpy had been too angry at his dirty fighting to yield the floor after he drew blood, he remembered that much. They were trained, from the second they set foot into the world of caged fighting, that once the bell signals the end of the match, that’s it. In the lower divisions, fighters were taught to break apart regardless of anything that had happened during the match; doing anything else brought immediate and harsh punishment. Any super that didn’t learn this quickly enough stopped coming back to the pens and no one ever spoke about where they went. He wondered what would happen to his opponent. He wondered what Stiles would have to say about it.

            Stiles.

            Blinking his eyes open, Derek tried to sit up, but found himself restrained by cuffs and strap s and the scent of wolfsbane hit him hard as they were jostled. He hissed, kicking as hard as he could and only managing to rattle the table. The voices raised to his left, and then Erica came into view, laying her hand on his shoulder.

            “It’s okay,” she said as Boyd appeared beside her. Derek looked wildly between the two of them for a moment before his brain kicked into gear. If they were here, Stiles was here. He let his head clunk back onto the exam table.

            “Stiles,” Boyd said, one finger to his ear like Stiles did when he used the ear device. “He’s up.”

            The cotton-stuffed sensation in Derek’s ear cleared. “Don’t speak, the vet is still there,” he said quickly.

            For a moment, sound muffled again and then Boyd said “Sure thing,” and turned to the vet. Derek followed the motion, tipping his head until he could see the young woman writing on a grey clipboard. “Mr. Stilinski is asking after you, ma’am,” Boyd told her. “We can watch Ashborn now that he’s awake, if you want to go get the paperwork taken care of.”

            She glanced between Boyd and Derek, lips pursed, and then nodded curtly. “Thank you,” she said, and disappeared out the door.

            Stiles’ voice was back as soon as Boyd gave the all clear. “I’m just filling out paperwork.” He spat the last word like it had a bad taste. “You gave us quite a scare; how’re you feeling?”

            “Like a harpy just tried to have me for dinner,” he rasped. He could feel Erica undoing the bindings on his left side, while Boyd worked opposite of her.

            A soft chuckle vibrated in his ear. “That’s a pretty accurate assessment,” he said. “When she dropped her wings around you, I lost sight of you.” The last words trembled more than Derek thought Stiles intended.

            “She was trying to shred me,” Derek admitted.

            “No _trying_ about it, she was going to kill you,” Stiles told him seriously. “She attacked the handlers that went in to stop her from killing you.”

            “She’s dead, then,” Derek concluded. He could imagine her surviving one transgression or the other, but not both- not failure to yield _and_ injuring handlers.

            “Yeah,” Stiles confirmed softly.

            “I’m sorry,” he began. “I shouldn’t have-”

            “Done anything other than what you did,” Stiles interrupted. “What happened to her is not your fault- you know that, right? Her warden was new, but he assured me they were ready to give it a trial run. He was wrong, and that puts this on him; it’s our responsibility as wardens to know what you can and cannot handle before you ever set foot inside an arena.”

            There was nothing he could say to that; as much as Stiles probably wanted to believe neither of them were at fault, Derek knew the truth. If this had been the harpy’s first fight, there was a good chance she was scared of losing. There was an even better chance that her warden had a lot riding on her premiere fight, and that he would have taken the loss out on her. It wouldn’t have been bad, because he wouldn’t be allowed to get away with leaving marks; unlike shifters, harpies didn’t heal quickly or without scars and the ARC didn’t look kindly upon evidence of game piece abuse.

            The last bond over his chest slid free and he groaned as he sat up, finally free. Erica stepped back, but Boyd reached out to steady him. He laid one hand over the top of Boyd’s for a second, long enough that they both understood Derek was okay to sit on his own. His ribs felt like they were on fire as they healed underneath the lacerations on his back.

            “Are you okay?” Stiles asked, concern flooding his tone.

            “I’ll be fine,” Derek wheezed, drawing in a deep breath that pressed against his healing ribs. It had been a long time since he’d been hurt that badly.

            “They told me I was lucky,” Stiles said softly. There was an odd note in his tone, one Derek couldn’t quite place. If it hadn’t been Stiles, Derek might have named it _fear_. “That you must’ve turned over so she didn’t get your spine. They said you wouldn’t have made it if she had.”

            “I’m okay,” he responded to Stiles’ unvoiced worry. He sat a little straighter, flexing the muscles of his back. The lacerations were closed but the skin was still tender. “Give it a few days and I’ll be good as new.”

            Stiles gave no immediate response to that, just the couple of slow breaths Derek heard him take. He could hear papers rustling and figured Stiles was putting together everything he needed to hand over to get them out of there. Then he sighed, and Derek caught the tiny, distressed noise. “I don’t- I don’t like you getting hurt.”

            It was fierce but quiet, the sort of declaration that caught Derek’s breath in his chest. “It’s not new,” he said, because it wasn’t. He’d been injured before, though rarely, when another super lashed out after the bell, in anger or fear.

            “Let’s not make it a habit, okay?” Stiles breathed out with a puff of nervy laughter. “I’m heading down to pick you up, are you good to go?”

            He looked to Erica and Boyd. “Ready?” It felt strange, still, casually talking to handlers, especially at an arena. At the manor it was easier to believe that they were just a natural part of every day life, just more people Stiles knew. Here, in uniform, with zap-sticks on their tool belts, Derek still had to convince himself it was okay to open his mouth or look them in the eye.

           “You bet,” Erica told him with a quick nod. She snatched up her jacket from the small wooden chair by the entrance, and motioned Boyd to follow her to the hallway. “Stiles will be down in a minute,” she said as she drew open the door, letting Boyd through first. “Your collar’s by the sink.”

            The door clicked closed as he glanced over to the sink. The thick, leather collar he wore in the pit sat on the sink-side, still wet with blood. Though the edges were frayed, ruining it, the collar was intact. He reached up, tracing the soft, new skin along his collarbones. He looked away, disgusted at the thought that the collar might have saved him from having his throat torn out.

            “I’m coming in,” Stiles said a few moment later, rather than knock on the door. Derek glanced up when Stiles entered, catching sight of Erica and Boyd standing guard before it closed. “Hey.”

            “Hey,” Derek echoed, dropping his gaze to his hands resting on his thighs, fingers curled under his palms. He could hear Stiles’ heartbeat thrumming beneath his skin.

            “May I see?” Stiles asked, coming to a stop in front of Derek, far enough not to be in his personal space.

            Habit saw Derek raise his chin, exposing his throat in submission. He could feel Stiles’ eyes upon him and he knew the debate; he could tell by the bitter scent that Stiles didn’t like to see him do it. But he remained completely still until he felt the feather soft touch of Stiles’ fingers on his bandages. They were useless now, the wounds they had bound almost totally gone.

           Still, Stiles sucked in a breath when he saw the pink lines of new flesh criss-crossed over his chest. Derek swallowed, knowing in his head that everything was fine, that he would heal completely, that Stiles had no reason to let his injuries retire him to a red box, but he couldn’t help the little zing of fear that shot through him at the noise. It was written into every line of Stiles’ body that he could have died.

            "Shit,” Stiles breathed, fingertips ghosting over the lines and leaving only heat in their wake. “She said it was bad, but…” His eyes flicked up, caught Derek’s and held them. “I’m glad you’re alive.”

            “She went for my spine,” Derek murmured, finally saying it out loud. An icy feeling swept through him at the thought. If it had been a Division 2 fight, he would be dead now.

            “I know.” Stiles’ voice cracked, just a little. “That was the last thing I saw before her wings dropped.”

            Slowly, Derek straightened the fingers of one hand and then reached up, curling them over Stiles’ forearm. When Stiles didn’t resist or withdraw, Derek pressed down, insistent but not rough, until Stiles’ elbow bent and he had to shuffle closer. He closed his eyes, soaking up the heat and presence of another living creature, taking in the reminder that he was alive, too.

            A few heartbeats later, Stiles leaned forward, just barely resting his forehead against Derek’s. “You’re okay, Derek,” he whispered. Derek wasn't sure which one of them he'd said it for, but he decided it didn't matter; maybe both of them needed the reassurance.

            “Can we-” He swallowed, tried again. “Can we just go home, please?”

            Stiles let out a relieved chuckle, and Derek let him pull away again. “Yeah.” He reached down to his wrist, slid off the twisted silver bands still clinging there, and passed the collar to Derek. In silence, Derek clipped it on and watched Stiles toss the bulky leather one into a trash bin full of blood-soaked cloth. “Let’s get out of here.”

            He held out one hand, and Derek took it willingly.

 

* * *

_Arena handlers shall not_

_handle any game piece alone_

* * *

 

            Derek shoved his feet into the sandals by the door of the bathroom, running a hand through his damp hair. The scent of soap and shampoo wreathed around him at the movement and he wrinkled his nose. At least he was clean, he thought, tracing one finger over the silver band around his neck. He’d traded the flexible collar for his actual one because the weight was different.

            The knock on the door was not as insistent as Derek expected, and he called for Stiles to enter rather than cross the room. The human’s head poked around the open door and he took everything in with one sweeping gaze. His eyes lingered on the veritable nest of pillows and blankets Derek had made out of the corner of the room, but he didn’t comment.

            “Coming?” Stiles asked, brows raising.

            Derek still didn’t know where they were going, and the only answer Stiles had given him was _it wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you._ “Yes,” he said as he crossed the room. “Thank you for waiting.”

            “Thank you for showering,” Stiles said with a grin. “I think we can both agree the arena is not the best stink in the world.”

            Though Derek wasn’t sure all the artificial scents in the cleaning supplies he’d been given were any better, he didn’t object. They hurried through the halls, down the stairs, to the outdoors, until Stiles pointed out the Jeep waiting in the driveway. Derek circled around and got into the passenger seat, fiddling with the seat belt while Stiles turned everything on. He wanted to ask where they were going, why Stiles’ heartbeat was so peppy, but he kept his mouth shut as they drove toward town.

            “You’re gonna have to take your collar off,” Stiles said, pulling to a stop in front of a red sign. “We’re going to a human place.”

           Derek raised an eyebrow at that, but reached up and undid the latch on his collar. “Where should I put it?” he asked, and Stiles twisted enough to be able to lift the lid of the center console. Derek carefully placed it within, and closed it.

            “We probably won’t stay long,” Stiles said as he crossed the street in front of them, heading for the cluster of buildings in the distance. “But since your fight was so early, I thought maybe we could sneak out before dinner.”

            “Are we sneaking?” Derek asked, because it certainly wasn’t like any sneaking he’d ever done and he didn’t think Stiles had to answer to anyone about his dinner. If he wanted to skip it entirely, Derek didn’t think there would be consequences for Stiles, no vet visits to determine what was wrong with him. However, if Stiles wanted to sneak somewhere, Derek didn’t want to ruin it.

            “We’re- It’s an expression,” Stiles told him, exasperated. Derek caught the smile, however, so he knew it wasn’t a reprimand. “Usually people go to this place _after_ dinner, because it’s not… good for you.”

            “Then why are we going?” Derek asked as Stiles turned into a small parking lot beside a squat, red-roofed building. There was a picture of a young human standing beside a very large column of something he assumed was food. The child on the sign looked very happy about it. Derek could see two real children looking similarly happy, standing beside a woman that must have been their mother. They each held miniature versions of the food on the sign. They both seemed to be enjoying it.

            “Because it- because it _tastes_ good it’s just bad _for_ you, get it?” Stiles parked the Jeep between two smaller cars and turned in his seat. “Like, you’re supposed to eat your vegetables and meat and healthy stuff first.”

            “So we’re... eating food before we eat our food?” Derek asked, brows scrunching. Stiles looked simultaneously relieved that Derek grasped the concept and even more exasperated at his summary of their adventure. Derek unbuckled his seat belt and grabbed the handle to get out. “Humans are weird.”

            Behind him, Stiles gave a resigned sigh and opened his own door. Derek stuck close to him as they walked over to the building, keeping his eyes off of the other humans. There was little chance that anyone was going to call him on being a super, not as long as he kept his claws in, his barcode covered, and his eyes down, but the fear still itched under his skin.

            The woman at the counter gave them both big smiles from behind a glass wall and asked for their order. Stiles glanced to him, but Derek wasn’t even sure what they were ordering, much less if he had a preference. He heard Stiles’ heartbeat rachet up for a split second, and then he smiled, and reached out to take Derek’s hand. For a second, Derek nearly recoiled, but then he caught on; Stiles was only doing as some of the other humans around them were doing.

            “I’d like a butterscotch sundae and he’ll have a medium vanilla cone,” Stiles said, ordering for both of them. He shot a _shy_ smile to Derek, completely out of character, and the woman behind the window cooed at them and told them she’d have it ready in a jiffy. Derek wasn’t sure what a jiffy was, but he assumed it was either some kind of dish or a short period of time.

            They moved off to the side and allowed the humans behind them to approach the window. Derek didn’t notice Stiles was still holding his hand until he released it a few moments later to accept their two items from a different human. He passed one to Derek, and then nodded toward one of the recently vacated stone tables. They were warm from bathing in the summer sun, and Derek splayed one hand over the surface of the table, taking in the contrast between it and the cold food in his other hand.

            “Ice cream,” Stiles said, holding up his _sundae_. He had a spoon in his free hand and he was scooping up a bunch of the thick, yellow-brown sauce smothering the top of the concoction. “It’s very sweet, and cold.”

            It sounded like a warning, so Derek brought it to his lips and touched the tip of his tongue to his ice cream. It was _very_ sweet, but in a thoroughly enjoyable way, and so he opened his mouth and took a giant bite. Stiles’ noise of warning came a moment too late.

            Cold, tight pain pinched at the roof of his mouth, shooting up through his sinuses and behind his eyes. His throat burned as he swallowed the ice cream, panting in warm air to try and cure the pain, gaze flicking to Stiles to silently ask why humans would ever put themselves through this. Stiles had said that this food was bad for them, but there was no way Derek could have guessed it would hurt so much.

            When the pain began to subside, the warmth of summertime healing the wash of cold, he realized Stiles was laughing at him, his own treat resting on the table, his shoulders shaking. Derek glared at him, trading the cone to his other hand because the ice cream had begun to turn into liquid, dripping down over his fingers.

            “You can’t-” Stiles gasped between bursts of laughter. “You can’t just- you have to eat it slow!” He dissolved into peals of laughter at the sour face Derek made. “It’s called a brain freeze,” he said at last, tapping the bridge of his nose with one finger, a smile still playing on the curve of his lips. “If you eat ice cream - or any very cold thing, really - in large bites, it does that. So, you know, little bites. Licks.”

            He demonstrated by licking the sticky sauce from his spoon, and Derek swallowed thickly, turning his attention to his own cone. Trails of melted ice cream were trickling over his fingers, the heat from his hand not helping. Tentatively, he began to clean his fingers, aware of Stiles watching him. It didn’t seem to matter how efficiently he licked his skin clean, more ice cream was melting, and so he traded off licks instead. One for his fingers, one for the edge of the ice cream to slow the dripping.

            It was tedious but very tasty, his tongue pleasantly numb from cold. Stiles seemed to remember that his own ice cream was melting in its little plastic cup, but only after watching Derek long enough to be absolutely certain he was getting it right.

            “Good?” Stiles asked, when Derek was down to the hard part of the ice cream. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to eat it or not, as it smelled a little like food and a little like plastic at the same time.

            “Good,” Derek said, holding up the last of the treat and lowering his voice. “Do I eat this?”

            Stiles wrinkled his nose, but shrugged. “You can. Most people do. I should have gotten you a waffle cone.”

            Derek squinted at him and then at the cone. He’d had waffles for breakfast a couple of times since he’d arrived, but he couldn’t fathom how much messier it would be to try to eat ice cream from one. He watched Stiles scrape the bottom of his cup with his spoon and tried to decide if humans topped the waffles with ice cream or rolled it into them or did something else entirely.

            “They close these sort of shops in the fall,” Stiles said, licking the sauce from his spoon and then dropping it into the cup, clearly finished. “They don’t open again until spring, so you’ve got to visit them while they’re open.”

            “Are there shops for warm things in the winter?” Derek asked, tipping his head. He crunched into the cone and then made a face he was sure mirrored Stiles’ earlier one.

            “Hunh…” Stiles said with a slow shake of his head. “You know, that’s a good question, and I don’t think there are, I mean, not like this. You can go to a coffee shop and get tea or hot cocoa, but there’s no outdoor ones.”

            “Because it’s cold,” Derek guessed. Humans were not well equipped to deal with cold, he knew that much. He wasn’t sure what coffee was, but Harvelle had made him several types of tea to try to help him sleep, and Cora had insisted he drink a glass of hot cocoa with her while she read to him.

            “Yeah,” Stiles agreed. He fiddled with the edge of his used cup, pointedly not looking at Derek. “We could go to one, if you like, before we go home,” he suggested.

            “A coffee shop?” Derek asked, head tipping. “More food before our food?”

            Stiles chuckled. “Another joke?” he teased. “You’ll be a regular comedian before we know it. But no, coffee is a drink. We could get something else there, they usually have lots of different drinks.”

            Derek considered it, but he wasn’t very thirsty and Stiles more seemed like he was looking for something to do. He gathered up every scrap of courage he had and asked: “Could we- is there a shop for books?”

            Blinking, Stiles sat back a little. “You want to go to a bookstore?” he said, surprised. “I mean sure, yeah, we can go to a bookstore.”

            He felt the blush creep up his neck at the instantaneous consent. It almost seemed like Stiles was excited to go as well. “I can’t read much, but Cora can. She likes to read to me in the evenings, and I thought, maybe…” He trailed off, realizing that he had begun to volunteer Stiles to purchase books for him, as he had no way to do so on his own. “Sorry, never mind.”

           Stiles reached out, touching a knuckle to Derek’s forearm so that he looked up at him. “Do you think,” he said softly. “That if we brought her home an armful of good books, Cora would let me sit with you while she reads to us?”

            Something warm and pleasant rushed through Derek at the thought of sitting in his room, curled up with Stiles and Cora in the den he had made for himself, and listening to his sister read them a story Derek was responsible for bringing to her.

            “Yes,” he breathed out, chest so full up with the sensation there was hardly room for the words to escape, and he thought maybe this was what humans meant when they said the word _happiness_.

 

* * *

_All Arena staff and wardens on Arena grounds_

_are expected to do everything in their power_

_to ensure the safety of all game pieces_

_outside of the matches_

* * *

 

           The night was rich and full and raw around the edges as he ran, muscles burning, chest heaving with every long stride. He'd begun at a lope, like last time, but Cora was having none of his hesitation this time. When her paws hit the ground, she'd bolted, streaking away from him in a dark blur. He'd chased her scent trail until he caught up, and now they ran shoulder to shoulder through the forest.

            It felt _good_ ; better than good, if he was honest.

            He could feel the pull of the moon down to his very bones, feel her light on his pitch fur, feel the instincts of the wolf saturating all of his senses. When he closed his eyes and listened, he could hear the alphas in the distance, could hear them pause to send up a long, hearty howl that spoke of things Derek had never known. In their mournful tones, Derek heard the open tundra and the deep feel of a thousand year old forest. He could feel the thrill of a hunt, the pride of a kill, the sense of belonging that came with being surrounded by a whole, loving pack of werewolves. He could feel the loss of their families, the blood they'd had to spill, the pain they had endured.

            He howled along with them, trotting to a stop and throwing his head back, long jaws raised to the sparkling moon so that she might hear him, too. Cora halted beside him, threading her higher, beautiful voice with his, and everything within him that hurt clung to the soothing sound. She was here with him; he had family.

            The distant beat of wings drew him out of the howling stupor and he touched upon the faint mental sensation of Negira, guarding the edges of their domain. She was not hunting him, he knew. She was watchful _for_ them, not _of_ them, making sure that they did not stray so far as to be noticed. As much as the forest belonged to the wolves on the full moon, it was her home as well, and Derek found he had nothing but respect for her when they ran. She belonged to them every bit as much as the forest, and he didn't mind belonging to her in return.

            After all, they all belonged to Stiles in the end; the forest, the wolves, the dragon.

            Maybe the moon, too, Derek thought as he flicked Cora's wet nose with his tail and took off at a sprint.

            He should have been able to lose himself completely to the night, out here away from everything, but he found his thoughts strayed continuously to the human who had taken them in, who had sent them off into the night like they were truly free. When Derek ran, he thought he would be able to focus on the ground beneath his paws, or the scent of trees and animals permeating everything around him, or even just the call of the moon.

Instead, it was Stiles that consumed his thoughts.

            It was the way he spoke so easily to Derek, the way he teased while Derek was in the pit, the way he gave himself up to laughter so freely. It was the warmth of his skin, the softness of his fingertips whenever he touched Derek. It was the way his eyes lit up when he learned something new and the way he held very still when Derek had to adjust to something new.

            It was the way he sat, so relaxed and comfortable, his shoulder pressed to Derek's, in the nest of a bed Derek had created. Ever since they'd come home with all those books for his sister, it had felt like Stiles _belonged_ there, like maybe he was a part of Derek's pack, too. They listened to Cora read stories to them almost nightly, and Derek could almost forget he where he was and what they were all doing together.

            He remembered there was a time he couldn't have fathomed falling asleep in the presence of a human and yet just the night before, he'd done so. Cora's voice had been so steady, so soothing, the scent of her and of Stiles mingling with his own all around him, and his eyes had just slipped closed. Stiles had nudged him awake a while later and told him he'd get a crick in his neck if he slept like that, even though they both knew he wouldn't. Cora had watched them closely, an odd little smile on her lips and Derek couldn't shake the feeling that she approved of their shiftless pack mate.

            Pack mate.

            The fur all over Derek's body raised at the thought, but he was swiftly running out of ways to deceive himself that Stiles had become anything else.

            Cora shoved her entire body at him, drawing him back to the present. He stretched his senses, feeling the touch of Negira's mind. In the distance he could hear the alphas changing course, heading back for the barn now that barest hint of light edged the horizon beyond their sight. It didn't matter if they could see it or not; they could all feel the coming dawn. The pull of the moon was already receding, releasing them, the longing to surrender to the shift fading.

            They didn't sprint back. Cora trotted along at his side, warm and reassuring, her heartbeat matching his own, the tips of her fur brushing his. It felt good, fearless, free. He wondered, briefly, if that was how wild wolves felt all the time, or if they always felt they needed to watch their backs for the hunters that would drag them into Derek's world. He wondered if Deucalion and Kali and Ennis would tell him what it had been like, if he asked.

            The forest ended abruptly, unnaturally so, a stark reminder that all of this was cultivated, tended for by people Stiles had hired. They trimmed back the trees, kept the wilds from encroaching too far upon the cleared manor grounds. Wing beats above them drew Derek's attention up, and he watched Negira land gracefully on the roof of the barn. She spread her wings wide, the moon framed between their edges as she watched them return. His eyes dropped down to the tiny human form emerging from the belly of the barn.

            Stiles smiled, soft and warm. "Welcome home," he said, the words settling into Derek's skin. "I'm going to get Negira inside and head to bed."

            Derek barked once to show he'd heard, then turned to head for the house. Cora watched him for a second, and then bounded over to Stiles' side. She was huge beside him, her shoulder blades above his waistline. Pressing her snout into his hands, she leaned up against him quickly, long enough for him to laugh and run a hand down her flank, patting her. It was as clear a thank you as Derek had ever seen.

            Then she was running back to his side, licking his face like she was a puppy again. Derek nipped at her before they took off across the grounds together. It was the fastest part of the night, only a few moments to cover all the distance with long, ground-eating strides. He had thought, the first time, that approaching the manor after the full moon would feel like returning to a cage, but it didn't.

            Isaac, eyes sticky with sleep, was waiting at the back door for them. He held it open, letting them pass inside without changing forms. Cora stopped for him as well, putting her huge paws up on his shoulders and licking his cheeks until he was laughing, voice rough and heavy. He gave her a hug, burying his nose in the thick ruff of fur at her neck, and then nudged her off and kicked teasingly at her rump.

            "Go on, you big softie," he told her, pulling the door shut behind himself.

            They trotted away from him, and Derek made sure they stopped off first at her room. She nuzzled at his jaw for a moment, then licked his cheek and disappeared into her room to shift and sleep. They wouldn't be up until after noon, and they would be starving. He would do his best to come by before she woke, so that they could eat together. A post-moon gorge was always less desperate with another wolf nearby.

            He listened to Cora collapse into her bed, and then trotted down the hall toward his room. He ducked into the room just long enough to rinse off the heady scent of woodland from his skin and put on soft sleeping clothes, before heading down the hall to Stiles' room instead. When he arrived, he listened for the sound of Stiles' heart and, not finding it, took a seat outside the door to wait.

            It wasn't long before Stiles arrived, eyebrows hiking up when he saw Derek curled up half asleep, his back to the wall. "You lost, puppy?" he asked, and Derek made a face at him. No one had called him puppy since his mother.

            Then he remembered why he had come, and he straightened considerably, nerves lighting up in apprehension. "I know it's- it's really early for you, or really late, but I-" He halted, not really sure how to start. "You said that you... needed to know what happened with Kate."

           Stiles straightened like someone had thrust a rod into his spine, but he nodded and then opened the door to his room. "Come on in."

            Clambering to his feet, Derek followed Stiles into the room and watched as he tossed a set of keys onto the desk and shucked his shoes near the door, trading them for slippers. Derek stood awkwardly by the open entryway, shifting from foot to foot, until Stiles turned his attention to him.

            "Do you want to sit?" Stiles asked, voice level, careful in a way that said he thought Derek might bolt if he made any sudden movements.

            "No," Derek said, but he took a seat on Stiles' desk chair, bringing his heels up to rest on the edge.

            Stiles looked at him for a second, and then sat on the edge of his bed and waited.

            All of this had seemed much clearer when Derek had made the decision yesterday. Now that he was here, sequestered in Stiles' room despite the open door, he couldn't seem to find the right words. There was so much to say, about everything she had said and done, and he wasn't sure where he could start that didn't seem like a jumble of _too much_.

            "You don't have to do this right now," Stiles told him, obviously cottoning on to Derek's anxiety. "If you-"

            "She hurt me," Derek interrupted, unable to listen to Stiles give him a way out, not when it was so tempting to keep his mouth shut and pretend it wouldn't come back for them both later. Stiles clamped his mouth shut so fast it was a wonder he didn't actually bite his tongue. "Sometimes she would bring in a zap stick and just- touch me. She'd turn it high enough to burn, but it would never leave marks for the next day, and she knew it. She wanted to hear me howl, and sometimes she wouldn't stop until I lost my voice."

            Stiles' hands had come up, covering his mouth. Derek closed his eyes, not wanting to see the disgust. He was a werewolf; he shouldn't have put up with a human torturing him. He should have been stronger, should have been able to shift and rip her throat out. He should have been able to defend himself.

            "She... taunted me," he said quietly. "She'd ask about my family, or talk about the fire. Remind me there was nothing else for me but being right there with her, the best I'd ever have." The words tasted like ash, his blood burning with all of the one-sided conversations they'd had, clawed up from where he'd buried them the moment she walked away from his pen the last time. " _At least you're alive_ , she'd say, _don't make me change that_."

            "Derek," Stiles breathed.

            "It wasn't all... words and zap-sticks," Derek ground out, still not meeting Stiles' eyes.

            He'd asked to know what happened with Kate and Derek knew it was important; he _knew_ how ruthless she was, how conniving. If Stiles didn't know what he was up against, he would be worse than a crippled fighter in the pit. Derek couldn't leave him open like that, not after all of the work Stiles was doing. Stiles deserved better.

            "Gerard took a group to away fights. Half a dozen fighters, usually the same group, and Chris and Allison went with him so it was just Kate who stayed, I think. That's what she'd tell me, anyway," he said. He shook his head a little. " _We're all alone, Derek_ , she'd tell me. _No one left to hear you scream_." Derek made a face. "She'd _drug_ me," he spat out, disgusted.

            He remembered the aerosol wolfsbane, the sticky feeling of it in his lungs, the drag of it against his muscles. He could hear her laughter and the sickening way she cooed at him not to fight it, how they were going to have _such a good time together_.

            "So you couldn't struggle?" Stiles asked, and Derek nodded.

            "There weren't any handlers, so she drugged me," he repeated, gingerly touching the sluggish memories. She always waited until he was too slow to dodge the stick, and that was the only time she would touch him without it. Her hands were always so _cold_ when she gripped his arm, hauling him to his feet and telling him if he so much as set one toe out of line she would have him redboxed off the grounds.

            He scrubbed a hand through his hair, trying to anchor himself in the present. She couldn't get him here. Stiles wouldn't let her, which is why Derek was here telling him all of this, he reminded himself. He was safe here.

           "She used to- to say nice things, but it was never anything nice that she _did_ ," he choked out. "Tell me I was _beautiful_ , that I had good skin and-"

            Glancing up, he caught the scowl on Stiles' lips, the anger in his amber-brown eyes. Fear pooled in Derek's belly for what that look might mean, but Stiles only said: "She didn't just... _hurt you_."

            He shook his head, eyes not leaving Stiles'. "No," he said, voice scratchy. "She'd tell me what a waste it would be to send me to the breeding pens _untested_." He finally dragged his gaze to the ceiling, unsure exactly how much he could dredge to the surface for Stiles without breaking. His throat was already closing up around his next words. "She'd take me to another room, bind me, and-"

            "Hey," Stiles said, holding up both hands to stop him. Derek realized his hands were shaking, voice trembling, and he clamped his mouth shut. His heart was beating so fast it was making him dizzy and his eyes were so blurry he could hardly see. "You don't have to tell me anything else, Derek. I think that's enough to guess how much trouble she's going to be."

            Relief coursed through Derek like a balm and he sagged a bit in the chair, dropping his gaze to look at Stiles. None of the anger was evident any longer, only concern.

            "Thank you," Stiles said softly. Derek could practically smell the guilt rolling off of him. "And I am _so_ sorry, Derek, that any of that happened to you. It will never happen here."

            Derek nodded. "I know." He made a noise that sounded far more like a huff than the chuckle it was supposed to be, and shrugged. "And I know I could tell you if someone hurt me. Before... what could I do? There wasn't anywhere to go, no one to tell, no matter what she did."

            Stiles made a little distressed noise, barely given voice, and Derek saw him twitch like he'd intended to rise. Instead, he stayed where he was, and Derek's head went light again from his too-fast heartbeat. He could tell Stiles was holding back, keeping a distance between them, but he couldn't tell _why_.

            "There should have been," Stiles said firmly, almost a snarl. The anger hadn't gone; it was just hiding where it didn't show on Stiles' face anymore. He hadn't chased it from his tone yet, and Derek wondered if it was what kept Stiles rooted to the bed. "There should have been someone you could go to, someone that could have helped you. I'm sorry I didn't get there sooner, and I'm sorry about..."

            As Derek scrubbed his eyes clear with the heel of one hand, he tried to follow his thoughts, but came up empty handed. "About...?" he prompted with a slight head tip.

            Sighing, Stiles shifted uncomfortably on his bed. "When I-" he started slowly. "When I asked if you wanted to do something more than sleeping-"

            "I know," Derek interrupted. "Stiles, I don't blame you for that. You let it drop when I said no. She never did that, not once. It didn't matter to her what I wanted, and you're not... that's not you. I know that."

            Stiles visibly relaxed, though not completely. "Okay," he breathed, shoulders dropping. "It- it matters, to me. What you want," he clarified. "Your safety, your health, your happiness... everything. It matters. "

            Derek smiled. "I know." He clambered to his feet and pushed in the chair with hands that still trembled slightly. "Good night, Stiles."

            "Good night, Derek," Stiles said as he moved for the door. "And thank you for telling me. Really."

            Derek glanced back, taking in Stiles still sitting on the edge of the bed, his hands folded in his lap to keep them from straying. For a moment, Derek was struck by how _different_ everything was here, how different _Stiles_ was. It frightened him, just a little bit, how willing he felt to give Stiles anything he wanted. Instead of dwelling on it, he just gave a small smile, and closed the door behind himself.

 

* * *

_Humanoid game pieces must be older_

_than relative age eighteen (18)_

_to participate in Division 3 matches_

* * *

 

            Derek groggily opened his eyes to the scent of food. Bacon, fluffy eggs, toasted bread, and orange juice all mingled together in his room, and he struggled to sit upright. Lifting his nose, he took a deep breath and caught Cora's scent as well. "You're up early," he groused, glancing to the window. The sun hadn't crossed into view yet. "You didn't wake me."

            "I thought about checking to see if you were dead," Cora said from the other side of the collapsible wall.

            "But?" Derek prompted, scrubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands.

            "But I decided that if you were dead, you wouldn't miss your bacon, and if you were alive, it serves you right for sleeping so late."

            He groaned, flopping back onto the nest of pillows and blankets. "It was a full moon!" he protested. "Even the Argents left us alone after a full moon."

            A biscuit - a real biscuit, the sort that was flaky and buttery and a little salty - arced over the wall and hit him on the side of his head. He plucked it from the covers and shoved half of it in his mouth in one bite. He mumbled a thank you around the bite, and she told him not to talk with his mouth full. He rolled his eyes, but finished the biscuit in silence.

            Tossing off the covers, he crawled off the edge of the mattress and padded over to where Cora sat with her feet propped up on the desk. She tossed another biscuit to him and made a face when he pushed her feet off the desk and took the last piece of bacon. It was salty and just undercooked enough to appeal to him.

            "How're you feeling?" she asked, tipping her head, chewing on a piece of fruit. "Stiles told me to leave you alone because you stayed up late with him."

            He caught the lewd note in her voice and shot her a bland look. "He wanted to talk," he said, tone making it as clear as possible that it was not her business.

            "Mhmm," she drawled, popping another piece of fruit into her mouth. " _Talking_. Is that what it's called?"

            Scowling, he took the bowl of fruit from her and crossed over to the empty bed frame. "Aren't you not supposed to talk with your mouth full?" he quipped.

            "Depends on what kind of talking, I think," she said, making a face back at him. "Oh, lighten up." She leaned forward and grabbed a white container from the big tray she must have carried in. Without warning, she tossed it to him.

            He caught it neatly, prying it open carefully. Inside was another huge serving of bacon, cooked perfectly how they liked it. He smiled. "Thanks, Cora."

            She took a deep breath and smiled softly. "You're welcome." She selected one of the bowls of scrambled eggs and then got up to plop down beside him on the bed frame. When she leaned into his side, he pressed back, glad for the comfort of another wolf so close.

            "I'm glad you're here," Derek told her, temple resting against hers as they ate their breakfast. They would go downstairs and eat properly in a little while, but he was glad she'd come early to take the edge off of the hunger gnawing at his gut.

            "It was lonely without you," she admitted partway through their bowls. He hated the pain in her voice. "I ran with the alpha pack for a few full moons, but it wasn't the same. They aren't really _pack_ , Derek. They're just... other wolves. It's so much better running with you."

            Derek hummed agreement instead of answering around a mouthful bacon. He thought he would have taken being able to at all, no matter the company, rather than the smooth-walled, sound-proofed pens the Argents kept them in for the full moon. A part of him wanted to ask Cora if the humans had ever put her through anything remotely similar, but the rest of him didn't want to know. He wanted only to know of her here, safe and happy, and he thought maybe she wanted the same; she had never asked about his past, either.

            "You like him, don't you?" she asked quietly a few moments later.

            "Yes," he said, glancing askew at her. He didn't have to ask who she meant. "He took me away from a bad place and away from bad people. Gave me a new home. Gave me you." He nudged his leg against hers and relished the smile she gave in return.

            "You know what I mean, Derek," she said, not letting him get away with side stepping. "You _like_ him. Different from how you like Erica and Boyd and Isaac and the others."

            He sighed, fishing the last piece of bacon from his bowl and depositing it into the remains of her scrambled eggs, paying back the piece he'd stolen from her earlier. It wasn't so much that he didn't recognize how he'd begun to feel about Stiles as that he didn't want to face what any of it might mean. He couldn't bring himself to touch on any of his feelings without remembering why he was there. Starting anything while knowing in the back of his mind that he stood a good chance of dying horribly in the pit just didn't seem right.

            "Maybe," he said, instead of lying. She scowled anyway.

            "Don't you _maybe_ me," she quipped, grabbing his bowl and getting to her feet. She set it back on the tray and tossed him another lidded container that he assumed was the rest of the eggs. "You reek of contentedness whenever he sits in for reading and don't think I didn't notice that you've got bits of his clothing buried in your bed for the scent. You hardly take your eyes off of him when he's around. You-"

            "Okay, okay, smartass," he interrupted. "Yes, all right? But it can't... go anywhere."

            "Why?" she asked, like a reflex. A slight flush dusted her cheeks for a second. "I mean, he likes you too, right? You can smell it all over him as well as I can."

            "I don't really want to talk about it," he croaked, fingers tight on the bowl of eggs in his hands. He had known Stiles liked him, known Stiles _wanted_ him like that, but he'd done so well keeping it _abstract_. Just an idea, something he could put aside.

            "You're not human," she said softly. "Their rules don't have to be your rules."

            "Rules?" he echoed.

            She sighed like he was being stubborn. "They're not supposed to mate with us - or with any super. But that doesn't mean you can't, I mean I-"

            Her jaw clacked shut and the flush that had spread across her skin earlier was nothing in comparison to the one coloring her face now. Derek straightened as he stared, eyebrows raising. "You, what?"

            "It's none of your business," she said shortly, becoming enraptured by the biscuit in her hands so that she didn't have to look at him.

            "I think it's all of my business," he replied. He wasn't her alpha, they didn't _have_ an alpha here, but he was older, higher in their little two-wolf hierarchy than she was. If any of the humans had touched her, he didn't care how nicely they'd been treated here; there would be blood.

            The sentiment leaked through into his tone enough that she looked up. "It's _not_ ," she repeated, teeth bared a little. "I can do what I want here, Derek. You're not my warden _or_ my alpha, so you don't get to pick who I mate with."

            "That's not- who you _mate with_?" he hissed incredulously. He'd never caught any scent of it on her, had not considered that she would look for that sort of closeness after surviving the breeding pens. His eyes narrowed.

            "Yes," she said, glaring at him now. Her voice caught on the word, and then her face scrunched and she dropped her gaze back to the biscuit. "It's my choice, not yours."

            He let out a heavy breath and closed his eyes, counting silently to himself. It was her choice, she was right. Popping a gob of scrambled eggs into his mouth, he gave himself another minute to think, to listen to the way her heart fluttered in her chest and the way her breathing kept going shallow with nerves. She hadn't wanted to tell him, he realized. He may not have been her alpha but he was her family- the only family she had.

            "I'm sorry," he said softly. "You're right."

            She twitched, glancing up at him and swallowing whatever she had been about to say. Derek took a few slow breaths, letting his admission sit between them while he picked at the food, not feeling hungry anymore. He just wanted her to be happy, and now he was responsible for that hint of sourness in her scent, for the knit of her brow.

            "You just... caught me off guard," he told her, closing up the container of eggs. "I don't want to see you get hurt."

            She rolled her eyes. "He won't hurt me, Derek."

            "They're humans," Derek said, more sharply than he'd intended, and he saw the coldness return to her eyes. "These ones seem very nice, they've treated us very well, but they're still _humans_ , Cora. No matter how I feel about Stiles, he's going to put me back in the pit, and he's going to ask me to kill our own kind. It's only a matter of time before he'll take you there, too, and no matter how you feel about any of them, no one here is going to stop him."

            She clamped her jaw shut and gave a little shake of her head. "I know." He could read in every line of her body how often she had thought about those facts, and how often she'd told herself it would be different. It wasn't. It couldn't be.

            "That's why it can't go anywhere," Derek reasoned, barely any volume to the admission. Admitting it aloud burned in ways he hadn't expected. He wanted Stiles to be different, wanted everything to be different, but he was only one person. "It's not the rules, Cora. It's them, and it's us, and it's the whole world being wrong for it."

            Her lips pulled back from her teeth, but she wasn't baring them at him this time. She was angry, her heart thudding slow but hard, her fingers crumbling the biscuit into nothing. The breath she let out at last was rough, snagging on her throat, nearly a growl as she got to her feet and held out her hand for his container. He gave it over and she tucked it into a corner of the tray, closing it up more forcefully than was necessary.

            "Then maybe," she said when she lifted the tray, raking her gaze over him with a tight frown. "We need a new world."

            He watched her leave and tried not to think about just how right she was.

           

* * *

_Division-specific arenas may not_

_host games outside of their Division_

* * *

 

            Stiles looked up from his dinner when Derek entered the dining area, stepping so softly Stiles thought perhaps he hadn't wanted to be caught. He reached out and pushed on the edge of a bowl of noodles, sending it skidding over the table to come to rest at the edge. Derek leaned over the table and grabbed a fork as Stiles shoved gently at the pasta sauce next.

            "What's up, Stranger?" he asked as Derek poured sauce over the entire bowl. "Have a seat."

            Derek's eyes flicked up to him and then he pulled out one of the chairs and sat down in it heavily. "Couldn't sleep," he said, stabbing his fork into the bowl and twirling.

            "Mm. Good fight tonight. Not surprised you're still amped up," Stiles told him with a chuckle.

            "I very nearly took a hit," Derek said before he shoved a forkful of pasta into his mouth. They both knew that taking a hit at this point meant starting over, another 50 fights, another two years before they would have the opportunity to move to Division 2 again. The close call had rattled both their cages.

            "But you didn't," Stiles reminded him, much more delicately twisting a bite of pasta onto his fork. He didn't know how Derek ate pasta without parmesan on it. He practically drowned his in it. "One more fight after this."

            Derek winced, swallowing quickly. "That's... sort of why I couldn't sleep." He met Stiles' gaze, hesitating. "I haven't had any training for Division 2. Are you just going to throw me into it?"

            "No!" Stiles rushed to assure him. "Oh, of course not." He wasn't about to say he hadn't given it much thought, hadn't _wanted_ to think much about it. Every time he imagined putting Derek into an arena where he could die, Stiles had begun to feel ill. Putting Derek through training for it felt like a knife in his gut. "We can- would you like to start tomorrow? I can have the other wolves teach you what they know."

            Sagging a little in his seat, Derek lifted another forkful of food. "Thank you. That... that would help. Will they be okay with it?"

            Stiles forced a smile. It didn't matter much to him if Deucalion was okay with it; he needed this done. It was just training. "I'll go down before bed and see what time would be good for them," he said instead.

            The smile Derek gave him was measured at best, and once again Stiles acutely felt the distance that had been gaping between them since Derek had come to him about Kate. He hated it, but on some level he knew it was best. It had started to become too difficult to separate his business life from his personal life where it concerned Derek. The wolf was a game piece, brought here to help Scott's cause. There was a good chance he would end up becoming a smear of blood on the arena floor if he messed up, and Stiles didn't want to be close enough to be destroyed by the loss.

            At least, that's what he told himself when he saw the thinly masked pain in Derek's eyes every time they were in the same room.

            That's what he told himself at night when he stretched out alone on his bed and wondered if Derek even noticed he'd stopped dropping by when Cora came to read.

            That's what he told himself every time it hurt to think he'd lost something they'd never even had.

            He shoved a forkful of noodles into his mouth and then got to his feet, leaving the utensil in the bowl on the table. "I should go do that before it gets much later," he said dully. "I don't want to wake any of the wolves."

            A part of him thought maybe Derek would stop him, or at least say something, but he just sat silent as Stiles left. Thinking Derek might change his mind, Stiles even paused around the corner to wait. When there was no noise, no motion, he sighed and headed down to the back entrance of the manor.

            Though it was dark outside, he could see the lights on the barn in the distance and he knew the path well enough he didn't bother finding a flashlight before he left. He was glad for the deep summer nights, with a warm breeze rolling over the open land surrounding his estate and the clear sky above dotted with millions of stars shining brightly enough the absence of the moon didn't make much difference.

            The barn was quiet when he reached it, the low hum of electricity in the doors the only noise. He pulled the door shut behind him, listening in satisfaction to the hydraulic locks hissing shut. In the three years since he'd purchased the estate and built the containment facility, the locks had never failed him.

            He trailed to a stop in front of Deucalion's pen, throwing a glance down to the others, but all of the other alphas were sequestered beyond the false house fronts. For a moment he considered just coming back in the morning, but then the door in front of him opened and Deucalion was stepping out to greet him, his long, silver staff in hand. Stiles steeled himself; he didn't particularly enjoy talking to this one.

            "How considerate of our warden to come say goodnight," Deucalion greeted, closing the door behind him. "To what do I owe the honor? There's no death matches for another week."

            "Nice to see you too, Duke," Stiles grated. "Unfortunately I'm not here for a social visit."

            "Pity," Deucalion said, and he took a seat on the steps, stretching out his legs alongside his cane. "I'll still hold out hope that there's a first time for everything."

            Stiles smiled wanly at him. "If I didn't think you'd cut my throat and take off for the hills, I'd let you out."

            "Don't be like that," Deucalion scoffed, a sly smile spreading over his lips. "You know I wouldn't take off for the hills."

            "You're hilarious," Stiles deadpanned.

            "I doubt you've come to visit for my jokes," Deucalion replied. He tipped his head and, for just a split second, Stiles swore that he could see him.

            "I need you and the others to help me train Derek for Division 2," Stiles told him, going straight for the heart of it. "He's never done it and-"

            "No."

            Stiles straightened. "Excuse me?"

            "I said _no_ ," Deucalion repeated. "I've seen this dance, and I know how it ends for your new chew toy- the same way it ended for his mother. I won't have a hand in it."

            Eyes narrowing, Stiles wrapped his fingers around the bars of the pen. "You said you didn't know anything about his family."

            "I lied," Deucalion said, enunciating each word mockingly clear.

            "His mother died in a building fire," Stiles said slowly, watching Deucalion for any reaction. "If you know otherwise, you should tell me now."

            "Or what?" Deucalion chuckled, a raspy, mirthless noise. "You'll send me to fight to the death?"

            "No," Stiles said, low and dangerous. "So help me, if you don't cooperate, I will personally gift wrap and hand deliver you to Warden Blake instead. Do you understand?"

            "You're bluffing," Deucalion said, but the edges of the words trembled just so. They both knew Stiles was telling the truth.

            "Try me." Stiles watched the rigid line of Deucalion's body and relaxed only when the wolf sat up and curled long fingers around the top of his cane. "Answer the question, Duke. What do you know about Derek's mother?"

            "I know no building fire would have taken Talia Hale," Deucalion told him bitterly. "Pull her last fights. Ask about her warden." He was on his feet and across the pen before Stiles had registered he'd moved, cane pressed over Stiles' knuckles on the bars, trapping him there. Stiles clamped his jaw shut against a shout of pain. "You're not the first bleeding-heart whelp to attempt to get a fighter out, Warden, and you won't be the last after your new toy's been redboxed."

            Stiles jerked his hand back when Deucalion released him, pulling his injured digits close to his chest as he searched Deucalion's sightless eyes for any sign of trickery. There was none, and a pit of cold dread settled in his gut at the implication that any of this had happened previously- or that Talia had been a part of it. He was going to have a lot of phone calls to make, a lot of digging to do to be able to prove anything, if he even could.

            "I'd be very careful who I call _friend_ , if I were you," Deucalion said quietly, letting the end of his cane tap against the ground. " _Your_ arena has far more dangerous opponents than mine."

            Taking a deep breath, Stiles swallowed down the ill feeling creeping over him. "Tomorrow morning," he said, voice a little more shaky than he liked. "You're going to help me train him."

            The smile that graced Deucalion's face was anything but comforting. However, this time he acquiesced with a nod. "As you wish."

 

* * *

_The victorious warden of a Division 3 match_

_shall receive from the ARC a sum of $500_

* * *

 

            Derek's back hit the ground for the seventeenth time, knocking the wind from his chest a moment before a sharp prickle at his throat told him he was dead. Snarling, he batted at Kali, but she was already yards away, smirking at him. He rolled over as the tiny wounds on his neck closed up, leaving behind only smears of blood in the grime accumulating on his skin. He was grudgingly impressed with how much control they had; a wrong move on their part would leave him injured for a long time.

            "Too slow," Deucalion drawled from across the mini arena. "And she's nicer than I'd be."

            "Don't try to get distance to turn," added one of the twins. Derek couldn't tell which by voice alone. "You'll never outpace an alpha, or most of the other things you'll fight."

            "You've got to spin," the other twin said, and when Derek looked, he thought it might have been Ethan. "Spin and strike at the same time."

            "I can't see behind me," Derek said as he readied himself to face Kali again. "How am I supposed to strike without-" He bit off the rest of his sentence, gaze flicking to Deucalion.

            "Without being able to see?" Deucalion asked with a knowing smile. "My dear boy, you have senses beyond your sight. You'll need all of them if you want to stay alive."

            Derek let out a heavy breath and nodded. Across the floor, Kali crouched low and Derek let his claws slide out again, ready for another attack. The false arena in the barn loft was a lot smaller than real arenas, even the Division 5 ones used for juvenile fighters. Like the twin had said, there was no way he was going to get distance on her, not enough to turn to face her in a surprise attack. She was just too fast. If he wanted to win, he was going to have to fight, and fight hard.

            This time when she came at him, he lifted his shoulders like he was going to stand to meet her, and he watched her adjust to the new angle. Realization dawned a second too late as she leapt at him and he dropped low, turning just enough to put a shoulder into her ribs and shove her off. She twisted in midair to land on her feet, and suddenly the fight was on his terms.

            He hit her dead on with hands and feet forward, raking blunt fingertips over the skin of her back, flexing to press against her spine as he vaulted away from her. She snapped at him as she toppled from his momentum, but her claws barely grazed his calf before he was out of range. When he looked back, she was standing with tolerant smile on her face.

            "You don't have to pull your claws for me, boy," she shot at him as he straightened.

            "He'd have had your spine out," Ennis leered from one of the railings, grinning. Kali snarled at him, but he just laughed and looked at Derek. "You learn that from the dragon?"

            Derek tipped his head. "Negira?" He'd only seen her one fight.

            "She does that same thing," Ennis told him. "Leaves herself open so she can switch the attack around. Did it to Duke the first moon we ran here. Problem is, it only works once, so if you miss the kill you're out of luck."

            "Good thing he got the kill," Aiden interjected. "Can we switch? Kali's getting to have all the fun."

            "Be my guest," Kali said, waving an arm in welcome and stepping off to Ennis' side. Derek didn't like how easy that was.

            The twins hopped down from the railing where they were perched, both glancing to Stiles, who stood off to the side with Isaac sitting in a chair beside him. The other handlers, Erica and Boyd, leaned against the wall by the only entrance or exit, watching everyone carefully.

            He couldn't see how the four of them would be able to control all five alphas if they decided to cause a problem, which made Derek wonder what they knew that he didn't. He assumed that it had something to do with the locks on the doorway out, or the fact that the barn beneath would still be closed up if they got out of the arena. It couldn't be the zap sticks; not one of the alphas even looked twice at the small sticks at the handlers' sides.

            Stiles nodded agreement, and the twins turned back to face Derek. One of them knelt in the sand and the other reached out, pressing a hand onto his back, over his spine. Derek's eyes widened as he watched them crinkle and meld and become one, but no one else seemed to find it unusual. The creature that rose in their place was a huge, a partially shifted alpha werewolf juggernaut. Heart pounding, Derek flicked out his claws and waited.

            They were easier to fight than Kali had been, slower on their feet, wider swings with their fists and claws. Derek was smaller than their combined forces, and personally thought they would be worse to face if they fought while separated. Like this, he was able to treat them like the two giants he'd faced before in the arena. He scrambled around their legs on all fours, striking out every time he was behind them, sending them turning in circles trying to keep sight of him. They caught on much quicker than he did, however, and he ended up running face first into their fist on one go round.

            That was how most of the day went. The alphas took turns sparring with him, each of them bringing something different to the table. They showed him various moves in slow motion until he could get the pattern of them down, and the twins were exceptionally handsy when it came to touching soft spots. At one point Deucalion suggested to Stiles that Derek be blindfolded, to learn to use his other senses better in tight quarters, and Derek spent an hour in the dark trying to find Ennis to land a blow.

            The handlers joined in toward the evening, after they had taken a break to eat what Cora and Harvelle walked out to them. They told Derek about nerves and pressure points, places where the zap stick - they called it a taser - was more effective. Erica showed him how to twist out of a few holds and Boyd showed him how best to balance his weight to receive a tackle. They demonstrated how to move to deflect a strike so that it rolled off harmlessly, or at least with much less damage.

            He knew he wasn't going to remember some of it, but Stiles assured him that he could set aside time daily if he wanted, to practice and go over anything he wanted. The alphas didn't seem bothered by it, especially the twins, who actually seemed eager to get out of the pens for something more interesting. Derek couldn't blame them; he didn't see a reason for them to be locked up.

            "I think we can call it a day," Stiles called at last, nudging himself away from the back railing. Isaac glanced up and then got to his feet as well. "I've got to be up early tomorrow for Yoena's match."

            Derek ran through the list of non-humanoid supers in the barn and recalled the small gryphon in the pen across from the chimera. She was beautiful, all in greys and blues, with sharp yellow eyes and sharper claws. While she wasn't quite as cuddly as Negira, she was friendly enough to touch. He'd sat outside her cage once for over an hour, mimicking her little bird-like noises, much to her amusement. He hoped she fared well in her match.

            "What time are we leaving?" Boyd asked as he watched Erica descend the steps at the exit. Deucalion was right behind her, cane tapping each step down before he took it. Derek missed how it had opened.

            "Match is at ten, so we should be out of here by seven to be safe," Stiles called, grabbing the water bottle he'd been using. Everyone else left theirs on the shelves near the faucet. "We'll be back by around four, if you want to come back up and keep working on this, Derek?"

            As much as it sounded like a question, Derek knew it wasn't, but he also knew that he needed all of the practice he could get before being tossed into his first to-the-death match. "Fine," he said, leaning back against the railing as Stiles moved past him. "I'm going to stay a little longer."

            Stiles shot him a strange look, but didn't argue with the declaration. He just let the alphas and handlers precede him down the steps, Isaac bringing up the rear. The young handler hesitated a couple of steps down, looking at the key card in his hands, and then hopped back up to the arena. He held out the card to Derek.

            "When you're finished, just flip the door shut and swipe this to lock it," Isaac said as Derek plucked the key from his open palm. "I can get the ID from you later. I'm sure if you asked, Stiles would make you one with your own code, to open the door."

            When Isaac made to pull his hand back, Derek reached out and latched onto his wrist. He saw Isaac stiffen, but the boy made no move to struggle or fight back, and Derek kept his claws in as he drew Isaac in close enough that his voice wouldn't be heard below.

            "I know about you and my sister," he hissed, looking sidelong to meet Isaac's eyes.

            "What about us?" Isaac asked levelly, not moving.

            Derek didn't know exactly what was going on between them, but he was the only human Cora spent enough time around that Derek wouldn't notice if she smelled like him. "She _trusts_ you," Derek said because he couldn't bring himself to voice her affection to Isaac. "I won't see her hurt."

            "I would never hurt her on purpose," Isaac told him. Derek listened to the steady beat of his heart, and Isaac covered Derek's hand with his own. "She means a lot to me, too."

            "She's the only family I have," Derek murmured, loosening his grip until Isaac could slip his hand free.

            Isaac gave his hand a gentle squeeze. "I know what it's like to be alone," he said quietly. "And to lose people. My mom disappeared, and my dad and brother were both killed when I was younger."

            Derek's heart twisted up. He could feel pain against his palm, where Isaac's skin touched his, but he left it where it was, didn't try to leech any of it away. "Then you know why I won't let her be hurt."

            "Yes," Isaac replied, releasing Derek. They both looked when Erica called Isaac's name from below, and Derek nodded for him to go. For a moment, Isaac searched his eyes, and then turned and disappeared down the stairs, calling back to Erica.

            Derek sagged back against the railing with a sigh.

           

* * *

_All game pieces must wear appropriate protective gear_

_at all times outside of the game arena pen_

* * *

 

            Stiles splayed one hand over the array of papers spread over the library tables, taking in the myriad black lines through information he just _knew_ was essential. He'd pulled online records first and when those yielded nothing of use, he'd taken a trip to the hard-copy records building outside of Atlanta and copied everything he could get his hands on concerning Talia Hale. He'd spent three days at the building and come home with a suitcase full of photocopies and _none of it said anything._

            He had been frustrated, at first, when he coated his library in papers and started scanning for information about her fights. The early records, the ones from her Division 3 fights, even a few of her first Division 2 fights, were open books. The forms listed her opponents, their wardens, which arenas, fight times and durations. Every fight record had a play-by-play transcript of the fight from gate's open to gate's close. The handlers were all listed with names and contact information, copies of their certifications stapled behind the warden and game piece registrations. Health records.

            Everything was there, up until halfway through Division 2, when the black marks began to appear.

            At first it was just the species of the opponents. It was a weird thing to black out, but something Stiles could ignore because sometimes exceptions were made for certain species, and those exceptions didn't go on record so no one could cite them later. It wasn't exactly the best practice, but most of those fights were one-time only death matches, where a random, wild-caught creature was released into an arena to be killed. Stiles had never attended a snuff-fight like that, but he knew they existed and assumed Talia had been pitted against something that was otherwise illegal.

            It wasn't until he began sorting through the late Division 2 fights and moved into the Division 1 records that things got fishy. Wardens were blacked out and the two that weren't, Stiles was unable to find record of anywhere. Their registrations were not listed for any Division. He sent the information along to his father, hoping to find some kind of death records for either of them, but hadn't heard anything back yet.

            His cell phone lay face-up on the desk beside him, the soft murmur of voices barely audible from the speaker. He was waiting for them to find Scott, who had shut off his phone for some reason. Calling the facility where he worked was low on Stiles' want-to-do list, but he didn't have a choice; he needed more than he had on the tables in front of him. Something was _wrong_.

            "Stiles?" Scott's voice filtered through the phone and Stiles fumbled to pick it up and turn it off speaker. "Is everything okay?"

            "I need to see you in person, Scott," Stiles said, hushed. He wanted to tell Scott everything, but not over his work line. Not even over their cell line. "I found some... stuff."

            "Stuff? Stiles, I can't just drop everything here to- what _stuff_?" Scott asked. Stiles could picture the crinkles in his brow as he processed Stiles' tone of voice.

            " _Stuff_ ," Stiles stressed. "Look, remember how I said I was going to Atlanta? I took a trip to the  National Arena Records Archive, and I pulled all the information I could about Talia Hale."

            "Hale?" Scott echoed, the his voice dropped and Stiles could hear him covering the phone. "Like your fighter?"

            "Like my fighter's mom," Stiles replied. "And dude, this is some seriously messed up stuff."

            On the other end, Scott sighed. Stiles let him think, piece together everything he knew with what Stiles was telling him. "I can't- Can it wait until this weekend?"

            It could, even though Stiles didn't want it to, so he just tamped down on his sigh. "I guess? Derek's last Div 3 fight is tomorrow afternoon. You know that means I'll have to go in soon to take care of Div 2 contracts."

            "Delay it," Scott said. "You can buy a week just holding on registration, right?"

            Stiles groaned and rubbed at his temple with the heel of his hand. "Yeah. I can- I'll figure that out. But I need- I'm trying to get my hands on video records of her fights. I've got all of her Div 3 fights and a couple from Div 2 but I haven't found the rest."

            "Did you call Danny?" Scott asked. When Stiles was very guiltily silent, Scott let out a sharp laugh. "Okay, call Danny. I'll see what I can do from here, and I'll be out Saturday."

            "I'll send you a ticket," Stiles said quickly. "And keep looking though this... mess."

            "Keep your head down, Stiles," Scott said quietly. "I've heard that tone before and it's never not gotten you in trouble."

            Stiles grinned. "I'll be careful. You're the first one I came to. Get your fuzzy ass out here safely."

            Scott snorted. "See you in a couple days."

            "Hey, Scott?" Stiles said softly, waiting to hear the click that never came. He could hear Scott put the receiver back to his ear. "Thanks, man."

            "We're best friends, Stiles," Scott said. "It's what we do. Go get some sleep."

            Stiles hummed agreement as the phone clicked dead in his hands. He set it aside slowly, feeling the weight of the phone, feeling the heavier weight of being alone again in the room, and let out a long breath. It was too late to call Danny or his father. He knuckled tiredly at one eye and rested his head on his palm as he stared blearily at the papers.

            Scott was right, he needed sleep. He needed to deal with Derek's last fight tomorrow before anything else. He would buy some time dawdling, see what he could get Danny to bring him, call his dad for updates, and maybe see if any of his handlers could find new information in the train wreck of papers scattered all over the library tables.

            And maybe, just maybe, together they could all figure out exactly what was going on.

 

* * *

_Arenas may host up to three (3)_

_Division 3 matches per day_

_unless they are a Division 3 specific arena_

* * *

 

            Derek ducked under the shifter's swing and felt the air move from her claws passing near his skin. He dropped one shoulder to the sand and rolled with it, lashing out with both feet to kick her away from him. She was a bear shifter, more solid than he was expecting, and the shove did little to give him distance.

            A moment later she was back upon him, snarling. The back of one large paw caught Derek around the knee, sending him sprawling into the damp sand. He flipped over in time to block her next strike and grab her other wrist to keep her from taking out his eyes. She snapped forward with thick jaws, unable to fully shift into bear form, and he turned his head to avoid being bit. Her free paw landed heavy on his chest, claws drawn in.

            He slid his claws down her arm from where he held her wrist, and his claws came away bloody.

            She realized it the same instant, letting out a hot puff of air into his face before she eased her weight off of him. "You're a quick little wolf," she murmured, offering him a hand up. "Good fight."

            He held up his claws for the announcer to see as he took her offer of help up. From somewhere above they could hear the officials declare the win to Stiles, and he gave her a quick, wary smile. "They're moving me to Division 2," he said quietly.

            She laughed and clapped him on the shoulder before pointing toward his still-open pen gate. "Then you should have lost, pup. Good luck out there."

            "You too," Derek said, dropping to all fours to lope toward the holding pen. This was how fights were supposed to end, how they normally ended, and he liked it a lot better than waking up in the vet's office.

            The sand changed to cement as he stepped off the arena floor and into his pen. To his right he could hear the quiet congratulations of the naga that had gone out before him, and he muttered thanks before curling up against the back door of the pen. The arena gate began to close, dropping slowing into its slots in the ground and hissing as it bolted near the ceiling.

            There was a crackle of noise in his ear, the sound of the crowd in the background, and then Stiles was in his ear. "Good job, Derek."

            "Two more seconds and it wouldn't have been," he replied. It shouldn't have been his win, and he was sure Stiles knew it too.

            "She had her paw on your chest," Stiles pointed out. "She could have flexed her claws and taken the win."

            "I know," Derek said quietly. He'd already had the thought. Stiles was curiously silent, long enough for Derek to add: "She let me have it, Stiles."

            "Yeah," he agreed. Derek could practically hear him thinking the same thing before he said it. "Something's going on."

            "Something bad?" Derek asked.

            "Don't know," Stiles told him. The sound cut out for a moment and when it returned, Stiles sounded much more hassled. "I'm going to get the paperwork cleared up here so we can go home, try to figure some of this out before you get started in Division 2. But hey... you're going to Division 2. You made it."

            Derek blew out a breath, not sure how comforting that particular thought was supposed to be.

 


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

_Humanoid game pieces must be_

_older than relative age eighteen (18)_

* * *

 

            The crowd was so loud Derek could hardly hear his own heartbeat in his ears as he stepped out onto the sands of his first Division 2 fight. He threw a glance around the arena but there was no sign of his opponent, only sand so white it was almost hard to see through the glare of the lights far above it all. He wondered how it stayed so white when all he could smell was fear and blood, dried out and crusting.

            Stiles was not the only one dressed in white here, but Derek still managed to find him after a quick scan. "Don't look at me, look at your opponent," Stiles told him, motionless in the seething crowd around him.

            Derek dropped his gaze to the row of gates across from where he'd come out, but still nothing had come from them. There were two open gates, one from the fight before Derek's. The fighter on Derek's side of the arena, a feisty little dryad, had won.

            "What's down here with me?" he asked under his breath, but even as Stiles answered Derek saw for himself; a young hobgoblin was slinking out from the second open gate. It was small, skin tan-brown and covered in knobby little bits of flesh, dark eyes darting around for an exit that didn't exist.

            "Let it blood you," Stiles instructed calmly. "Once they taste blood, they frenzy; you won't have to worry about it planning anything against you."

            "It's just a kid," Derek breathed, chest tight as he took in the sight of his opponent. "Stiles, he's just a kid."

            Derek had fought a lot of hobgoblins in Division 3. They were common in the outside world, often described as pests around the edges of civilization, brought in from the wild frequently by hunters. They never spoke much in the holding pens, but when they did, they spoke of the wilds in halting, barely coherent Common. They weren't nasty or mean, just wild and usually angry, but even in Division 3, he had never seen one so young.

            "Nothing you can do about it, Derek," Stiles reminded him. "It'll come down to you or him. That's how it is from here on. If you want me to call it, I can, but-"

            "They'll call the deal off," Derek finished, dropping to all fours as the crowd's cheering scaled up upon catching sight of the hobgoblin. "I get it."

            "I'm sorry," Stiles said. "For what it's worth."

            Not much, Derek thought as he loped toward the hobgoblin. He could smell its fear, hear the rapid patter of its heart when it caught sight of him coming closer. The fight had to last at least 5 minutes, so Derek slowed as he neared, giving the hobgoblin plenty of time for a shallow strike.

            It never came.

            He made a long turn around, thinking he just hadn't gotten close enough, when the creature spoke in a tremulous voice. "No kill wolf!"

            That pulled Derek up short, until he was crouched only a couple of yards from the other creature. "What?" he said quietly.

            "First fight," the creature told him urgently. "No want kill. Please no kill!"

           From this close, Derek could see it trembling, hands shaking where it clasped and unclasped them in front of its chest. It was _terrified_. Derek's stomach sank as he processed the words; this was the hob's first Division 2 fight as well, and unlike Derek, it wouldn't have had a choice. Its warden would have moved it to Division 2 without asking, without taking into consideration that it didn't want to die.

            All Derek could think of was how the shifter at Negira's match had just _played_ with the hobgoblin, and how everyone in the stands had known who the match was going to before first blood was ever drawn.

            All he could think was that this hob's warden had _known_ it wouldn't make it out alive, and had signed the contract anyway.

            "I'm sorry," Derek breathed out, heart wrenched up painfully in his chest. "I'm so sorry."

            "Derek-" came Stiles' voice in his ear. "What are you doing?"

            He reached up and drew his claws across his own shoulder, blood welling up in their wake. Even from a few yards away, he could see the hobgoblin's eyes black out as it caught the coppery scent, its entire body twitching to follow when Derek flicked little red droplets into the sand at its feet. Above them, the crowd had gone almost silent, holding its collective breath.

            The hobgoblin turned to him, black eyes narrowing, teeth baring. It was still trembling, and Derek wondered how much the frenzy erased. He knew he was in for a fight either way and was proven right a moment later when the hobgoblin came snarling at him.

            He leaned back and lashed out with his foot, kicking it to the side as he rotated himself around to get onto all fours again. The fine, white sand was too damp, too slippery to run in properly, to get purchase, but he managed to get a few yards before the hobgoblin was back on its feet and barreling after him.

            "It's coming in," Stiles told him. "Heading to your right."

            Derek slowed, turning his head just enough to catch sight of the hobgoblin as it came up on his right just as Stiles said it would. When it swerved toward him, claws out, he let it bowl him over, latched on and rolled with it. Sand slopped wetly up around them, getting in his mouth and nose and eyes as they scattered to a stop.

            He rocked to his feet, expecting to have to deal with a face full of whirling claws and gnashing teeth, but instead the hobgoblin scrambled a few feet away. It was dragging in deep, gasping breaths, shaking its head as though to clear it and tossing furtive glances Derek's way to track his recovery. Derek swallowed, realization raking through him.

            It was trying to fight the frenzy.

            It didn't want to hurt Derek any more than it wanted to be hurt.

            "You have to," he murmured, but the creature was shaking its head and backing away from him, rubbing its nose into the sand and snorting to rid itself of the scent of Derek's blood.

            "No, no," it kept repeating, trailing off into its own language, one Derek didn't understand at all, though he could get the gist of the message. It didn't want to do this. It wasn't going to make an honest attempt to take Derek's life.

            It was going to make Derek kill it without provocation.

            "I can't," he breathed, throat closing.

            "Derek, what's going on?" Stiles asked. Derek looked up for him, but couldn't see anything beyond the lights. The sound of the crowd was wrong, not cheering or booing, just... wrong. Agitated, disturbed like the air between a lash of lightning and the sound of thunder. Their game pieces weren't killing each other like they should be and they were not pleased.

            "He's not going to fight me," Derek told him, voice cracking.

            "Then finish it quickly," Stiles replied, voice thick with resignation. "You'll be at five minutes soon."

            The hobgoblin was backing away from him, dropping down to all fours to cower. It yammered placations Derek didn't understand, voice low and rolling as it pleaded in a broken voice. Derek took a step forward and it flinched. His stomach sank. Stiles was right. He was going to have to be the one to finish it, as quickly as possible.

            "I'm sorry," he said as he prowled forward, teeth baring for show. "You're going to have to fight me."

            The hobgoblin moaned, low and pained, but its eyes blackened with frenzy when Derek leapt forward. It sunk sharp incisors into Derek's shoulder as they connected. Derek gritted his teeth and ripped his shoulder free, leaving skin and flesh behind. The wound was already closing by the time he took a swipe and raked his claws down the hobgoblin's side as it tried to scramble away from him.

            He was so rarely on the offensive that it was difficult to figure out what he needed to do. His hand was coated in thick, greenish blood and the hobgoblin was skittering away from him, getting the same sort of distance Derek used to work for in every fight. He knew there was no plan behind the action, though, no tricks; it was just running away, and Derek found himself in pursuit a moment later.

            Hobgoblins were slower than wolves, even when Derek was only in beta shift, and Derek caught up easily. It turned on him when he got close, sending up a spray of wet sand that temporarily blinded him, and then it latched needle-sharp teeth onto his wrist and wrenched him off balance with a fierce yank. Derek yelped as the world crashed sideways. The moment his shoulder hit the sand, he brought his other hand around to lash out for his freedom, gouging down his opponent's face.

            The hob released him and Derek used his falling momentum to roll back to his feet, digging his feet into the sand until he reached the more solid sand underneath the sloppy top layer. There was just enough time to see his opponent crouched somewhere between cowering and attacking before Derek launched himself at the creature.

            It went limp in his grasp with a small noise, eyes closing and hands coming up to scrabble softly at Derek's wrists where he pinned its chest to the ground. Derek forced himself to keep his eyes open as he brought one hand up, wrapping it around the hobgoblin's throat, claws pricking through the skin. He could feel the frantic heartbeat even if he couldn't hear it over the roar of the crowd.

            "No kill," the creature rasped desperately, begging as it squirmed in his grasp. "Please no kill!"

            "I'm sorry," he whispered, one last time.

 

* * *

_Treatment for injured game pieces_

_shall be provided at the Arena veterinary clinic_

_if a warden has no other option_

* * *

 

            The sound of running water was audible even through the thick wooden door. He'd come by earlier, over an hour ago, and the water had been running then, too. Stiles had thought giving Derek some time would be good, but he knew the showers only ran hot for about half an hour so there was no way Derek could still be in it. Worry was clawing at his gut as he pushed open the unlocked door and peered inside.

            The room was empty. Across from him, the bathroom door was open, no steam leaking out around the edges. He called Derek's name, but received no response, and so he closed the door behind him and padded across the room. After a moment of hesitation, he knocked loudly enough on the door to be heard over the water. There was no response, so he called Derek's name again before poking his head around the frame.

            Inside, Derek was curled up against a corner of the shower, the water coursing down the walls around him. His legs were drawn up almost to his chin, his arms tucked protectively against his chest, his head bowed down, eyes closed. Even over the water, Stiles could hear his raspy, gasping breaths, see his sides heaving.

            Stiles' heart leapt into his throat as he hurriedly snatched up one of the huge, fluffy towels from the rack. The glass door was shut tight, but he managed to pry it open with worry-numb fingers and shut off the water. The showerhead trickled to a stop, the last rivulets tracing down the stone tiles. Derek didn't flinch, didn't open his eyes or acknowledge Stiles in any way, the harsh sound of his breathing filling the new silence.

            Reaching out, Stiles fluffed the towel up and let it settle around Derek's naked shoulders. He could see the shivers coursing through Derek's body and he wondered how long Derek had actually been sitting there under the freezing spray. It took a long time for a werewolf's extra-warm body to cool to the point of shivering. Stiles tucked the towel in around Derek as best as he could without Derek moving to help.

            When he was satisfied he'd done what he could, Stiles stepped back and carefully lowered himself to sit across from Derek in the shower stall. The floor was wet still, cold water soaking through his pants so that the rough fabric clung to his skin. It didn’t matter- wet or not, he was willing to wait as long as he needed, until Derek came back from wherever he had gone inside his head.

            Fidgeting nervously through the long moments, he watched in silence as Derek's shivering slowly, slowly ceased. Eventually his breathing began to even out and his fingers curled into the edges of the towel where Stiles had tucked it near to his jaw. When he finally opened his eyes, flicking his gaze up to Stiles, they were red with irritation. He'd been crying, Stiles realized, stomach swooping.

            "Hey," Stiles said when Derek took his first deep, purposeful breath to calm himself. He was itching to go over to Derek, to reassure him that he was safe now, but Stiles managed to keep himself still.

            Derek's voice was raw when he spoke. "You're all wet."

            Stiles let out a sharp bark of laughter, laced with all the relief coursing through him. "It doesn't matter, it doesn't matter at all. I don't care," Stiles assured him in a rush, slumping back against the far wall. "I was worried about you."

            Derek straightened some, letting the thick towel cascade down to cover his back as he leaned away from the wall a little. "Me?" he echoed, seeming to realize where he was for the first time. "I'm- I..."

            "Why are you in the shower, Derek?" Stiles asked softly, drawing his attention back to him. Stiles knew exactly why Derek was in the shower, why he'd sat under the spray until it went icy cold, but he needed Derek back in the present. "You've been in here a very long time."

            Derek looked around, like he had no idea, and then dropped his gaze to his hands. Though he wasn't shivering anymore, his hands were still trembling. "The mirror... I saw my eyes, and I couldn't... I can't get the blood off." He was just staring at his hands, unseeing. "I can still feel it, Stiles. I can smell it everywhere, I can't get rid of it, I can't-"

            "Hey, hey, hey, shh," Stiles said, rocking forward onto his knees and hobbling over to him. Derek was already curling back into himself, shaking, as Stiles settled in front of him, his knees on either side of Derek's feet. "There's no more blood, Derek," Stiles told him, hesitating a split second before laying warm hands on Derek's freezing cold shoulders.

            Derek flinched at the contact, but Stiles didn't withdraw. Carefully, feather-light, he drew his hands down Derek's arms until he lifted them of his own accord, letting Stiles pull his hands gently from the cradle of his lap. Stiles slipped his hands under Derek's palms, holding them up on the backs of his until Derek lifted his gaze and looked at him.

            "It's all gone, Derek," Stiles assured him. He gently rubbed his thumbs over the soft webbing between Derek's thumbs and forefingers, soaking up the contact just as much as he was offering comfort. As fragile as Derek seemed in that moment, Stiles was well aware that he was still dangerous. As lost as he was in his mind, possibly lost in the memory of the fight, Stiles didn't want to do anything to startle him. "You washed it off. The fight's over and you're home now, remember?"

            "I can smell it," Derek murmured, brows scrunching. Stiles half expected his claws to pop, but Derek remained perfectly human. "Everywhere."

            "Okay," Stiles told him, realizing that Derek was probably telling the truth. Some of the scent probably still clung to the insides of his nose, and would for a day or two if nothing was done. "Okay, I believe you."

            He slid one hand away and reached into his pocket, pulling out his cell phone. He tapped Isaac's speed dial with his thumb, and when the handler picked up, Stiles gave him quick instructions. He was sure he'd made stranger requests, so he wasn't surprised when Isaac agreed and hung up without saying goodbye or asking questions.

            They sat in silence until there was a knock at the door, and Stiles called for Isaac to enter. The handler poked his head in the door, brows rising when he saw the way they were seated, still on the damp floor of the shower. He crossed over and put a small, blue container in Stiles' outstretched hand before retreating with a quiet _goodnight_.

            "What is that?" Derek asked, sounding drained, as Stiles unscrewed the white lid of the container. Mint and medicine scents blossomed in the air around them the moment it opened, and Stiles tipped it so Derek could see the white cream inside.

            "It's cold medicine," Stiles told him, rubbing one finger into it. "If you're sick - well you're never sick, but if you were human and sick - it helps clear chest congestion while you sleep. But, sometimes people use it if they are going someplace with bad smells. Chin up."

            Derek tipped his head back enough to give Stiles access. Stiles was still - even after months now - a little awed at how easily Derek did it, just _submitted_. Of course he knew that game pieces were all trained to do it, some much more harshly than others, but whatever else he might have been, Derek was still a very powerful supernatural creature.

            Trying not to think about it too closely, he reached over and smeared the silky, white paste just above Derek's upper lip, under his nose. Once it was applied, he knew Derek wouldn't be able to smell anything else.

            The next breath Derek took seemed to relax him, and he sagged back against the corner of the shower as his eyes slid closed. Stiles smiled, his own relief tainted by the knowledge that he'd put Derek in this position. He'd signed the registrations, picked the fight, told Derek there was little to no choice once the game began. He'd tried to give Derek space, and had messed that up as well.

            "I'm sorry," he said quietly. Derek's fingers tightened on his and he opened his eyes. "You don't have to keep doing this. I can call Scott in the morning and tell them to find someone else."

            "You can't," Derek told him, eyes going wild for a moment. "You can't. If you do- if someone- I can't. I killed him. I killed him, and I'll see that every time I look in a mirror and if I stop, it won't mean anything. It'll just- it'll be blue in my eyes and blood on my hands forever. I have to-"

            "Okay," Stiles said quickly, trying to reassure him. "Okay. We'll make it mean something, then. But you can't do that from this shower stall. You've gotta take care of yourself. Get some rest."

            He felt the tension leech out of Derek, his grip slacking on Stiles' hand. He smiled wanly and Derek returned the gesture before releasing him. Stiles scooted back as Derek wrapped the towel over his own shoulders and they began to clamber to their feet together. Derek was a little shaky still, unsteady, and Stiles figured his legs had probably fallen asleep. His own were a little tingly, pins and needles prickling up and down his skin.

            Together, they walked out of the bathroom and over to Derek's nest of blankets and pillows in the corner. Stiles fetched a pair of sweatpants and a soft shirt from the nearby dresser and tossed them to Derek. The wolf caught them neatly, the towel flicking open with the motion. Stiles hoped his blush didn't show, though he knew it did. He did his best to drop his gaze while Derek dressed, though he wandered a little closer when Derek stepped into the bowl he'd made in the center of the bed.

            Stiles watched as Derek poked around at the edges of the nest before laying down and curling up. He hadn't been this close to Derek's bed since he'd stopped showing up to listen to Cora read, and his eyes widened a little when he caught sight of one of his plaid shirts tucked beneath a blanket. A quick glance around told him there were two other shirts and a sock tucked into the bed as well. He knew they weren't there for softness, so guessed they had to be for scent. Despite the current situation, a warmth settled in his chest.

            "Are you going to be all right?" Stiles asked, smiling when Derek looked up at him. He needed to get out before he said something stupid. He was supposed to be giving Derek _space_ , but all he wanted was to join him.

            "No," Derek said, but Stiles knew it wasn't the sort of no that meant he had to worry. That was a comfort, at least. "But I'll survive."

            Stiles nodded. That was going to have to be good enough. "I'll come by in the morning," he said. "Bring you breakfast, see how you're doing. You can help me pick the next fight."

            "No hobgoblins," Derek said almost instantly. "No more hobgoblins."

            Taking a step back to give him space, Stiles nodded. His eyes roamed over Derek, curled in a nest that most likely smelled of both of them with the addition of Stiles' shirts, and had to fight the desire to stay, to curl up around Derek and make sure that he was all right for the rest of the night. He was sure there would be dreams, probably nightmares, and he knew Derek wouldn't admit it later. He also knew that Derek needed time to sort out everything the fight had left him with, and everything it had taken, and there was nothing Stiles could do to help either way.

            “Good night, Derek,” he said instead, a moment before he closed the door.

 

* * *

_Arena venues may not hold_

_Division 2 matches more than_

_one day per month_

* * *

 

            Derek lay sideways in his nest, feet propped up on the small edge where he had piled a couple of pillows. The room was filled with the soft tones of Cora's voice as she read from a book about a far away land. It was somewhat boring, reading books with no characters on adventures, but Cora preferred real, historical stories. She liked the sorts of books that described everything someone could do while visiting the outside world, while visiting all the places she wished she could go. Stiles, when he had still been dropping by to listen in, had laughed lightly at their choice of books.

            "They're real places," he'd said when Cora insisted he explain. "Some of them are across the ocean, like Australia. Some are just a land border, like Canada."

            "We could visit them?" Cora had asked, looking over from where she was sprawled on the floor. "I want to go to South America."

            Derek had heard Stiles' heart rate climb a second before he chuckled. "Maybe someday," he'd told them. They all knew it wouldn't be possible. They could never travel around like humans, not unless everything changed, unless Cora got her _new world_.

            Stiles had come by a week ago to listen to them reading. It was the first time he'd been by in a week or two, since Derek had gone to tell him about Kate, and it had been nothing short of awkward. He'd fidgeted the entire time and left the room smelling like nervous energy. Even Cora had noticed and asked him about it once Stiles was gone. Derek hadn't wanted to talk about it. He still didn't want to talk about it.

            So instead, he was lying down, eyes closed and feet propped. Cora was talking about a creature called an _iguana_ and how they had become very aquatic in the Galapagos islands. They did a lot of swimming and ate something called algae from rocks and Derek thought they sounded like singularly uninteresting creatures, but Cora was fascinated by them. She had tried, a few times, to talk to him about _evolution_ but he didn't see a reason to remember much about it.

            So he just enjoyed the sound of her voice, the scent of family, and the feeling of her happiness perfusing the room. It was pleasant, peaceful, and Derek thought he could spend all of his time outside of the arena just lying here listening to her. He'd been alone since the fire and every time she knocked on the door, his heart lifted and he had to fight down the thrill of having a pack again, regardless of how he'd come by it.

            Just at that moment, Cora paused to change sections in her book, and Derek sat up a little. "Hey," he said, suddenly curious.

            She didn't look over but he could tell her attention shifted. "Hey, yourself," she said.

            He rolled his eyes. "Can I ask you a question? About uh- about when I came here?"

            That got her attention and she rolled onto her side, sticking her finger in the book to hold her place. "Sure, what's up?"

            He rolled his thoughts around in his head, stomach twisting up. He had thought about his arrival a few times - more than a few times, if he was honest - and about the day when Stiles had walked so casually into his life to offer him unprecedented freedom. He thought about the way Stiles had told him about his sister, and how she was safe where Stiles lived.

            Except, there was one thing Derek had been unable to make sense of. At the time, he had dismissed it, but it had been lurking at the back of his mind ever since.

            "When Stiles came to get me, he said that he'd shown you photos," he said. "Photos of the fighters at the Argent's estate. He said you recognized me." He sat up a bit, meeting her eyes. "The last time I saw you, you were _six_. I was _twelve_. I'm sure I don't look the same, so how did you recognize me?"

            She laughed, rolling over onto her back to dismiss him. "I didn't _recognize_ you." The book fell open around her fingers. "Stiles asked if I had a brother, and showed me your picture. I wasn't sure until you got out of that car, and you smelled like family. I mean, you reeked," she added with a grin. "But you smelled like family underneath."

            "No," he said, pulling in his feet and sitting up fully. She noticed, and turned her attention back to him. "Stiles said that- that Lydia showed you the pictures first." His brow scrunched, because he couldn't remember Stiles' exact words.

            "You sure?" she asked quietly. "He and Lydia did show me pictures, but they already knew about you."

            "I listened to his heart, Cora," Derek said. "I'm sure he said he showed you the pictures."

            "First?" she pressed. She rotated around and rocked up to sit as well, putting the edge of the dust jacket into her place in the book before setting it aside.

            "I- I don't remember," he admitted. "But he said you insisted he bring me here."

            "I did," she said simply. "He said there was a chance you were my brother, even though you had a different name, and I asked him to bring me to you. He couldn't, so I asked him to bring you here. Lydia told him that was probably possible, and then... well, they did."

            "Just like that?" Derek asked.

            Cora shrugged, looking distinctly uncomfortable. "It took a while," she admitted. "Like, I dunno, three months? They had to figure out how to get you without Kate's help."

            "I mean, he just helped you? Just like that?" he clarified. "No questions?"

           Frowning, Cora shifted around and looked away from him. "He didn't ever say no, if that's what you mean," she said. "But questions? Yeah. He asked a lot of questions about the fire. I didn't remember much, obviously."

            "Why the fire?" Derek asked, concern settling in his gut. He didn't think Stiles had lied, exactly, but it seemed more and more like he'd been keeping something quiet. "What did he ask?"

            She drew in a deep breath and let it out, clearly trying to remember. "Uhm, he said that your arena name was Ashborn, which was a really good sign, you know? It sounds like you were _born from ashes_ or whatever. Like you came from a fire. Except, I guess when they looked into it, there's no records."

            Derek tipped his heads. "The fire isn't in my records?"

            "No," she said with a shake of her head. "Derek, there were no records for you at all. The first time you show up on paper is at the Argents. No capture records, no breeding records. Nothing. It's like before fifteen years ago, you just didn't exist."

            He blinked, sitting back as he tried to process what that meant. "Then how did he find me?" Derek asked, mostly to himself.

            Cora watched him for a moment, and then said softly: "Maybe that's something you should ask him."

            Derek swallowed whatever response he might have given to her because she was right. It didn't do them any good to sit here wondering what happened. Stiles was the only one with those answers. He sighed and flopped back into the nest of blankets.

            "Later," he huffed tiredly. "I don't even know what questions to ask, so... later. For now, I believe you were reading about islands."

            Though she hesitated, he heard her lift the book, splay it open on her lap, and then he closed his eyes as she began to read again.

 

* * *

_Wardens may not play_

_a Division 2 game piece more_

_than once in twenty-eight (28) days_

* * *

 

            The satyr's horns missed his hip by millimeters, sending Derek's heart rocketing. It was far more vicious than the little hobgoblin he'd last fought, charging straight for him the moment the gates were open. This one was out for blood, out for the kill. Derek was doing his best to avoid being gutted by its horns or lacerated by its long claws.

            He didn't remember the last time he'd been up against a satyr in the pit. Usually he saw their cousins, the fauns, who were much less angry. They _danced_ rather than fought, and win or lose, they did so with grace. Derek liked them.

            There was nothing to like about the crimson-skinned, murderous creature who knew better than to let Derek get distance. Where Derek ran, the satyr moved to cut him off, cornering him back toward the wall, charging at him, lashing at him. So far Derek had been _lucky_ , but he knew it was only luck. This wasn't going to be like his first fight; there would be no surrender.

            He dodged another charge and kicked out, landing a solid blow to the satyr's neck. It yelped, swiping at him even as it toppled to the damp sand. Derek hissed as he felt its claws split the skin of his calf, and then they were off again. He could feel the wound healing as he ran, his heart thrumming at the realization that he still _had_ to run.

            His fights, for years and years and years, all ended at first blood.

            This one ended at last blood, with the stilling of another heartbeat.

            Derek was beginning to wonder, as the satyr furiously charged again, if it was going to be his that stopped first.

            "You're doing good," Stiles said into his ear, like he was reading his mind. "But you've gotta go offensive if you're going to win."

            "I can't get distance," Derek said. "It's too fast."

            "You don't want distance in Division 2. Take it to the wall, let it charge," Stiles said. "Piss it off first."

            "Piss it off?" Derek snapped. "That's your grand plan?"

            "Yeah," Stiles said. "Make it angry enough to hit the wall." He sounded smug.

            Derek groaned because, smug or not, Stiles was right. If he could enrage it deeply enough, it was possible it would come at him hard and fast enough it wouldn't be able to stop before hitting the wall. It would require Derek to move out of the way fast enough, but if he could just get it to stop charging him, they could actually fight.

            He veered sharply to the left, the satyr hot on his heels. It miscalculated the turn on the sand, wasn't able to follow his motions fast enough. Derek lashed out as he doubled back around the creature, catching it superficially across the cheek with his claws before darting away again. It snapped viciously at him, an angry roar bubbling up from its chest.

            "Too slow, old man," Derek taunted, feeling sick. There was no honor to be had in insulting an opponent. He didn't remember everything about his mother, but he remembered her telling him after every fight that she would rather lose and die with grace than win and live without it. "You _trying_ to get redboxed?"

            "Impudent," the satyr yowled, wheeling around on him. Blood flecked the sand when it shook its head. "I'm not going to leave enough of you to be sent back with your warden."

            "Good luck, grandpa," Derek shot back, dodging the next swipe. The tip of one of the satyr's horns connected with his bicep, but not enough to deal any real damage. "At this rate I think an unarmed _human_ would best you. Weak!"

            "We're going to have to work on your insults," Stiles told him as he backed up, just barely avoiding another strike. "Maybe Deucalion can give you a few choice words."

            Derek crinkled his nose, but didn't respond. He just snatched up a handful of sand the next time he hit the ground, and then tossed it behind him into the face of his opponent. The satyr paused long enough to shake the sand from its face, howling in rage, and Derek had just enough time to get to one of the stone walls of the arena before it was lowering its head for another charge.

            The solid THWACK of its horns and skull hitting the wall would stay with Derek for the rest of his life.

            The satyr sagged to the side, dazed, both clawed hands pressed to the top of its head. Derek didn't envy the headache the creature must have earned, but he also didn't give it time to recover. He latched tooth and claw into its back. It dropped to the floor in an attempt to writhe free of him, but he dug in, tearing at skin and fur until they were both coated in a layer of sticky blood. It tried to reach him, clawing at him over its shoulders, bucking and throwing its horned head back, but to no avail.

            When it finally managed to dislodge him, Derek knew it would be too late. The damage was done, more of its skin in ragged, tatter-edged wounds than not. It wobbled upright anyway, golden eyes glaring, skin pale from loss of blood. "Go on then," it rasped. "Finish it, wolf."

            "I don't want to kill you," Derek told it, but he didn't draw in his claws. "I never did."

            "No one ever does," the satyr said with a rough, mocking laugh. "That's the secret no one ever tells the humans. It's all a game to them. Doesn't matter what you want."

            "It should," Derek said softly, stepping closer. The fight had gone on long enough.

            "Lot's of _shoulds_ in this world, kid," the satyr said tiredly. "I should let you kill me." It shook its head and Derek noticed one of its horns had broken, likely when it hit the wall, and was seeping dark, dark blood. It's hide was shredded from Derek's earlier attack. "But if you want the win, you're going to have to take it from my carcass."

            Derek bared his teeth, already dreading the feel of more blood on his hands, the way the smell of death would linger for days afterward. He couldn't lose, couldn't give up, though. He was going to make it through all of this, and leave it behind forever. It was that thought, more than any other, that sent him forward to meet the satyr's next attack.

 

* * *

_Any match which does not reach_

_the five-minute duration shall_

_cause the match to be forfeited_

* * *

 

            The library doors were closed when Derek reached them, though Stiles' scent led straight past them to the interior. Gingerly, he tested the handle of one door, and found it unlocked. For a moment he debated what to do, whether it would be considered against the rules for him to enter after the doors had been closed. Technically no one had told him he _couldn't_ , but technically no one closed the library doors unless they didn't want to be disturbed.

            In the end, he pressed down on the handle and pulled open the door. If Stiles truly didn't want to be disturbed, he could have locked the doors and been done with it, Derek reasoned. He had a lot of questions and after thinking through all of them, he knew what he wanted to ask Stiles. Earlier, he'd spent three hours in the bathroom, talking to himself in the mirror, trying to come up with every possible response to whatever Stiles might say to him.

            He was certain it would be inadequate anyway, which was what had given him the courage to get off the bathroom counter and seek out the human.

            The front tables were devoid of research material, which Derek actually found surprising. Normally when the doors were closed, Stiles was at the tables with stacks of books or papers, one of the handlers nearby to help him. Sometimes it was Boyd, and Stiles was the one doing the helping. Either way, they usually inhabited the front tables like the aftermath of a hurricane but there was not a trace of any of them now.

            "Stiles?" he called out, thinking perhaps he'd gotten it wrong. The scent trail had definitely led here, but Derek hadn't checked to see if it also led away again.

            "Back here!" Stiles answered, voice muffled by several bookshelves worth of books. "Is that a Derek I hear?"

            Instead of answering, Derek just paced to the back of the library. Stiles was seated in one of the plush armchairs, a book open on his lap. It didn't look like a normal book, with words in neat, straight lines. The pages, instead, were covered in charts, black marks obscuring a lot of the handwritten words. It didn't even look old; the paper was all clean white, the marks crisp and stark, like they had come from Boyd's printing machine.

            "Hey," Stiles said as soon as Derek was in sight. "Something wrong? You look a little peaky."

            There were a million things Derek could have said to explain why he looked like he was going to be ill, but none of them would have fit the sense of unease he felt at questioning all of the good fortune that had come his way since meeting Stiles. A part of him was screaming that doing so, bringing any of this up now, was putting Cora at risk as well as himself. The last thing he wanted or needed was to call Stiles out on a half-truth and have all of this stripped away from both of them, but Derek couldn't leave it alone.

            "Do you remember when we met?" he asked, the words falling out before he could even manage a greeting of any sort.

            He didn't imagine the way Stiles stiffened, straightening in his seat a little bit as his heartbeat picked up. Derek knew it was nerves, from not knowing why exactly Derek would bring up the subject, but it still made him anxious. "Yeah, of course," Stiles said. "I don't think I'll ever forget."

            "You told me Cora insisted I come here," Derek said carefully. "That you- that Lydia showed her pictures of the Argents' Division 2 fighters."

            "Yes..." Stiles said slowly. His heartbeat, though slightly faster than normal, didn't change again.

            "She was six," Derek said carefully, every sense trained on Stiles for his reaction. "When I saw her last, she was six. It's been fifteen years, almost sixteen now, since then. There's no way she recognized me."

            He watched as Stiles folded the book closed and lay it on his lap, heart fluttering. He listened to him take a deep breath, nodding, and finally their eyes met again. "I assume you've already spoken to Cora about this. To be honest, I'm a little surprised it took so long."

            "You _lied_ to me," Derek accused. He didn't want to feel hurt by it, not when it was in the past, not when it had brought him so much good, but he couldn't help but wonder what _else_ was a lie between them.

            "No," Stiles said firmly. "We did show pictures to Cora, and she did insist that you come here on the chance that you were her family. I let you believe that she was the reason we sought you out, but the truth is that we were already looking at you before we ever showed her your face."

            "Why?" Derek asked, trying to swallow back the bitter feeling long enough to get answers.

            For a few seconds Stiles just looked at him, tapping absently at the cover of the book in his lap, as if judging how much to reveal. Finally he let out the breath he'd been holding. "Things were different when I first came to you, okay? I want you to know that. We needed a fighter capable of moving through the Divisions, and the group Scott belongs to tipped us off that the Hale bloodlines were good, strong fighters, Division 2 and 1 capable."

            "And that lead you to me," Derek concluded.

            "No," Stiles said with a little shake of his head. "No, actually it lead us to a lot of dead ends at first. A lot of non-survivors, a lot of destroyed survivors. Your sister was picked up by a breeding facility, but she was too young at the time, which probably saved her life. A _year_ of searching, and she was the first living survivor we'd come across."

            "Then how did you find me?" Derek asked.

            "Honestly?" Stiles asked. He let out a puff of breath and looked away from Derek. "We didn't. Scott was telling Allison - his wife - about our search and about the fire. Allison told Lydia, who contacted me about a fighter in the Argent roster whose records started two days after the fire. A werewolf named _Ashborn_. No origin facility, no capture record. She sent a picture of you to my phone the next morning, and there was no mistaking the resemblance to Cora."

            "You already had Cora," Derek said. "Why did you need me?"

            "She didn't know anything about fighting," Stiles said with an ill-concealed scoff. "Hadn't even set foot into an arena before. But you... you were different. Lydia told us you were one of the most concise fighters she'd ever seen. I started attending your matches, and yeah. She was right. She's still right."

            Derek didn't know what to say to that, so he just waited.

            "I'm sorry," Stiles said quietly. "I needed you here with us, and I didn't think you'd come without a good reason."

            "How did you know it would work?" Derek asked. He may not have liked that Stiles used Cora to get to him, that he had played upon Derek's craving for family, but it had worked. It had gotten them here. "Humans break up our families all the time. How did you know I would even care about her?"

            Stiles smiled. "Because she was six years old when that fire happened, and she'd been through the wringer ever since, but the second I told her that she might have family left, she lit up with hope. It was hard to believe you wouldn't do the same."

            "Don't-" Derek said, the rest of the command sticking in his throat. It was supposed to be an order, but the thought of finishing it set all the hairs on his body hackling in almost instinctual fear. A fighter giving an order to a warden, even one as friendly and easy going as Stiles had been over the past couple of months, was unheard of. Countless times, through his entire life, he'd been told even talking around humans could get him destroyed. "Don't do it again. Don't use her again. Don't lie to me."

            With a nod, Stiles let out his breath. "Okay," he agreed. Kicking out slowly with one foot, he nudged the nearest chair. "You better take a seat then."

            Derek hesitated, suddenly aware that there were probably a lot of things Stiles hadn't been telling him, maybe a lot of things Derek wouldn't want to know. Instead of asking, however, he took the offered seat. As soon as he was settled, Stiles scooted his own chair closer and plopped the book he'd been holding into Derek's lap.

            "I said I would look into the circumstances of the fire at the Hale facility, and what happened with your mom," Stiles said as he opened the book for Derek. As he spoke, he started flipping through the pages, not stopping long enough on any page for Derek to actually read anything. "Of course I'd looked into it before, but not deeply. Enough to know it happened, approximately what time it happened, and what rulings were made regarding it. On the surface, it's all clean."

            "And beneath the surface?" Derek asked.

            "That's where it gets weird," Stiles told him. "This is a lot of what we've found so far and... well, look at it."

            "What is it?" Derek asked, stopping him by laying a hand over one of the pages. When Stiles withdrew his hand, Derek saw that the page was equal parts words and black marks.

            "What it's _not_ may be more significant," Stiles said, sitting back in his chair. He pointed at the book like an accusation. "Everywhere I turn, every document we've dug up, they all look like that. Every black mark on there? That's information someone wanted hidden. Something someone didn't want anyone else to know. That's not unusual, not for a fight, maybe two. Sometimes they do it for snuff fights, where they need a record that a fight happened but the details aren't suitable for the public. But that whole booklet, that's all that's in it. Pages and pages and pages of _missing information._ "

            "They're... hiding things?" Derek's gaze flicked up to catch Stiles watching him. Stiles nodded. "Why?"

            Sighing, Stiles rubbed a hand over his head in frustration. "We don't know," he said. "No one's turned up anything useful yet, but I think the fact that all that stuff's been void marked says more than whatever is under the marks. It says something happened, something the ARC doesn't want anyone else to know."

            "You're going to find out what," Derek said. "Aren't you?"

            Stiles just smiled.

 

* * *

_The victorious warden in a Division 2 match_

_shall receive from the house their entrance fee_

_plus 10% of the house division earnings for the match date_

* * *

 

            Pouring in through the frosted window, suffusing everything with golden color, was the sunlight that finally woke Derek. Confused, he fumbled into an approximation of _upright_ and looked blearily around the room. There was nothing to indicate that anything was _wrong_ , exactly, but no one had come to wake him. For weeks now, every day had started with one of the trainers knocking on his door to ask if he wanted them to set up a training session. They had never come in, and the one time he'd said no, Isaac had just left him alone, but they had always at least tried.

            Closing his eyes, he focused his hearing until he heard the quiet murmur of voices in the dining area, even though he couldn't hear what they were saying. It was rare that the group would eat all at the same time, and even more rare that they wouldn't ensure everyone knew and attended. Worried that he was in trouble, he clambered out of bed and wriggled into clothing. He lifted his collar from the nightstand next to his den and gently clipped it around his neck as he headed for the door.

            The scent of food, _amazing_ food, hit Derek the moment he entered the hallway, and he followed it all the way down to the dining room. The long dining table was deserted, all of the chairs empty, though all of the food he'd smelled still covered the surface and it was obvious the others had eaten. Eggs, bacon, pancakes, waffles, trays and trays of fruit, cinnamon rolls, soft biscuits, sausages... There was more than enough food to feed three times as many people as were currently in the house.

            Voices, quiet murmurs, filtered in from a nearby room. Snatching up a cinnamon roll - one of his favorite delicacies - and a link of sausage, he followed the sound out of the hall.

            He emerged into the large, open entrance room of the manor. At the center of the huge wall of windows, someone had grown a bushy pine tree whose top just barely brushed the ceiling. Its branches held aloft glittering orbs and strings of feathery, silver material that sparkled in the morning sun. Underneath sat a pile of brightly colored boxes with brightly colored strings binding them.

            Everyone fell silent when he hesitated in the doorway, cinnamon roll in one hand, half-eaten sausage in the other. Cora popped to her feet, recognizable only by her scent due to the strange, white mask she was wearing. It covered her entire head, with a mane of red fur running in a ruff down her back, and a cowl of fur around her neck. Long, soft whiskers trailed from the nose of the mask, over two feet long, and she had her own, real claws out to accent it all.

            "Derek!" she exclaimed, voice muffled by the mask.

            "What are you _doing_?" he managed, looking amongst the gathered humans. Everyone was in pajamas except for Stiles, who was still dressed more casually than Derek had ever seen him. "What is this?"

            "Solstice Eve!" Cora said, shifting so that she could peer at him from behind the golden eyes of the mask. He wasn't sure, but it looked like a dragon of some sort, though none that he'd ever seen. "It was supposed to be a surprise."

            "I'd say he looks pretty surprised," Isaac commented dryly from one of the armchairs.

            Derek shot him a scathing look and then turned to Stiles for an explanation. Still smiling, Stiles motioned for him to take a seat on the couch next to him, and waited until Derek was settled before speaking.

            "There are two solstice days in every year," he explained. "One in the summer and one in the winter, and they mark the longest and shortest days of the year respectively."

            "And that?" Derek asked, pointing at Cora's attire. While beautiful, it seemed ridiculously out of place amidst the rest of the casual clothing.

            "That... is a luck dragon," Stiles said, his expression softening. "Or, it was. They've been extinct for years now, but a long time ago, on the darkest night of the year - the winter solstice - people used to try to coax luck dragons to their homes. Legend says they were attracted to small lights, shiny objects, and song. So, people would place baubles in the trees outside and candles in their windows, and spend the night singing together."

            Derek pulled his gaze away from Stiles, back to Cora. She wiggled her head a little, causing the mask to wobble, and he began to understand that she was pretending to be one of the long-lost luck dragons. "What happened if it worked?"

            "Well," Stiles said slowly. "It's said that if a luck dragon appeared, it would bring sunlight with it, and present a charm which would bless the chosen family for the coming year."

            "And they're gone now," Derek concluded, looking back to Stiles.

            "If they are still around, no one has seen one in decades," Stiles confirmed.

            Quiet fell as Derek digested that information, hands in his lap. Supers didn't just _disappear_. Dragons were not immortal, at least none of the ones he'd ever heard of, but they were long-lived. They were resourceful hunters, excellent fliers, fierce protectors of their young. If they had died out, it hadn't been an accident. It hadn't been chance.

            Cora reached up and lifted the mask from her head, holding it carefully at her belly in both of her hands so she could see Derek better. "They were hunted," she said, and Derek knew it was because no one else was going to say it. "Bad people wanted to use them. Their... parts. It was a long time ago."

            "And now?" Derek asked, looking up at her.

            A sad smile twitched at the edge of her lips. "And now they're gone, and sulking about it won't bring them back. Humans still celebrate the solstice, but now the children dress up as luck dragons and bring gifts instead of luck."

            When she nodded toward the brightly colored packages under the tree, Derek's gaze shifted to follow. He counted quickly, thankful that Erica had taken time to teach him simple math when he had asked, and realized everyone had probably brought packages. Everyone except him.

            "I didn't-"

            "It's your first solstice," Erica interrupted. "You don't get to give presents on your first solstice."

            "Presents!" Cora echoed, lifting the mask up over her head and lowering it back into place. "Who wants to go first?"

            "Me!" Erica said, a moment before Isaac and Boyd chimed in. She leered in triumph at both of them, then pointed to one of the packages. "That blue one, Cora. It goes to Vernon."

            Cora made her way over to the decorated tree, pulling her claws in before she lifted the flat, rectangular package. Everyone watched as she traversed the room to where Erica and Boyd were curled up together on one of the couches. Boyd accepted it with a quiet thank you, and began to peel away the paper that covered it. Inside was a tome of some sort, leather covers cracked around the edges, the stiff pages within clearly made by hand. Whatever it was, it brought a huge smile to his face.

            "You found it!" he said to Erica, who beamed.

            "Of course I found it," she replied, shifting her hair back over her shoulder proudly. Derek realized he'd never seen her with her hair down- handlers weren't allowed to wear it down, to prevent it from being gripped or getting caught. It was _beautiful_ , golden and bright and styled in delicate waves. "It's the original edition, too, so it'll be perfect for your research. I told you I could find anything." 

            "You did," Boyd agreed, tugging her just close enough to press his lips to her cheek.

            Swallowing hard, Derek averted his eyes. He had seen humans show this sort of affection before, but it still took him off guard. It was so _easy_ , so _natural_ between them, like they could just forget the rest of the world. Even after months of being here, he still found it difficult to remember that humans could be more than just cruel.

            The impact of a small, brightly colored present on his lap hauled him out of his thoughts, and he looked up to find Cora lording over him. "Your turn, grumpybutt," she told him, clawed hands on her hips. "It's from Vernon, so quit frowning and open it."

            There wasn't any room to argue with her, so he lifted the present and began to pick at one side of it, reluctant to damage the beautiful paper in which it had been so carefully wrapped. Eventually Stiles nudged him with one foot and told him to just open it already, but he was smiling, so Derek let one claw through and used it to slice a neat line down one side of the paper.

            Inside lay a book, though it looked nothing like the one Erica had given Boyd. This one was had clean, crisp covers in white and grey, neat black script on the front reading _Mythomanity Interaction Through the Ages_. When he looked up in question, Boyd offered him a smile.

            "It's stories," Boyd told him, mimicking opening the book.

            Derek copied the motion, cracking it open to look at the pages. On the left side of each set of pages lay a printed copy of artwork from one of Boyd's old books, with humans and supers. On the right there were words, sometimes only a couple of paragraphs, sometimes a page or more, transcribed into type from ancient handwriting.

            "After I copied those pages of artwork for you, I thought maybe you'd want to know the stories that go with them."

            "That's... this is amazing," Derek breathed, running his hand over one of the images, a pair of young humans playing with a centaur colt. "It's beautiful. Thank you."

            "When you get through it all, you'll have to let me know how it was," Boyd told him. "I was thinking I could get an anthology of the stories published, maybe after my first book."

            "I will," Derek said solemnly. He wasn't sure what exactly the handler would need in order for the book to be complete, but Cora had explained publishing to him. Publishing a book like this would make these stories available to all humans, so that they could purchase it at places like those Stiles went to procure books for Cora, and Derek _wanted_ that. He wanted very badly for humans to see these pictures and read these stories.

            "It's your turn to pick," Cora interjected after a moment of everyone watching Derek turn pages. "Who gets a present next?"

            "You," Derek said without hesitation. Cora let out an exasperated sigh. "Not you?" he amended.

            "The luck dragon is supposed to open presents _last_ ," Cora explained.

            "I think we can make an exception," Stiles suggested. Pointing to one of the presents, he said: "You should open that one. It's from Isaac."

           She threw a glance to Isaac, then to the package, then turned back to Stiles. "I guess, if it's okay," she said hesitantly, already pulling off the mask, her claws retracting. Carefully, she placed the mask to the side and took a seat on the ground, lifting the package into her lap. It was fairly large. Derek glanced to Isaac, but his attention was focused intently on Cora.

            Slicing the paper open with much more practiced ease than Derek, Cora tugged the box free, and then gasped. "You remembered!" she practically shrieked, fingers pressing into the box.

            "I have a bunch of film for it, too," Isaac said, grinning at her enthusiasm as she tore open the box to reveal a hard, black case. She clicked the clasps and flipped it open to reveal a device Derek had seen before in the arenas. It was a black box with a long snout and a tiny patch where light flashed.

            "What does it do?" he asked. He'd had them flashed at him before, dozens of times, especially after a good win, and he saw them activate in the crowd during matches sometimes.

            "It's a camera. It takes pictures," Cora said breathlessly, holding it up and pointing it at him. The flash sparked and the camera whirred in her hands, leaving Derek blinking back spots in its wake. "It... imprints an image on film, and then you develop it with chemicals to make pictures. Isaac, this is amazing."

            "It's got a digital memory, too," he said, indicating the side of the camera. She turned it over in her hands and popped open a small slot. A little tab emerged, and she smiled. "You can switch it to one or the other, or have it do both at once. I'm sure we can set up a dark room here for developing the film."

            Cora looked to Stiles, who nodded. "We'll find something that works," he assured them both. "I believe it's your turn to choose, Cora."

            The rest of the morning passed the same, with Cora distributing presents according to the requests of whomever had last received one. By the end of the morning, Derek had a small pile of gifts, one from each of the humans and a plethora of unscented bath soaps from Cora that came with commentary on how he shouldn't smell like the arena but he also didn't need to smell like a lilac bush. Erica had given him a set of large, soft sweaters to wear now that it was cold, and Isaac had given him a book on musical instruments.

            Stiles' present had come last of all of them, a black square with two little knobby devices that resembled his arena com earpiece. "It's a music player," Stiles had told him. "You put those little buds in your ears, and the device plays whatever music you select. I'll show you later. For now... food."

            Everyone had rumbled agreement as they put their presents aside and headed for the dining area. Derek hung back just enough to walk next to Stiles. "Thank you," he said, so quietly only Cora could have overheard.

            "You're welcome," he said, nudging his shoulder against Derek's as they walked. The warmth of the touch lingered even after he pulled away. "I programmed your player with all the songs you've been listening to downstairs, but you can add others you like, too."

            "I meant... for including us," Derek said. "Cora's very happy here."

            "And you?" Stiles asked, glancing askew at him. Derek could smell how nervous the question made him, no matter how flippantly he had asked.

            He allowed himself a smile. "I'm happy here, too."

            Up ahead of them, Erica shouted "Movies!" and all three of the others cheered agreement. Stiles raised his eyebrows at Derek, a silent invitation to join them.

            "Breakfast first," Derek said, warmth flushing through him when Stiles bumped gently into him again on his way past.

           Breakfast took considerably longer than Derek expected, with everyone doing more talking than eating. At one point, Harvelle joined them long enough to take the last cinnamon roll and tell them they were on their own for dinner because he was going home to his family. Boyd and Erica volunteered to cook, and the voting process for what they were going to make took almost half an hour.

            "Aren't you going home to your families, too?" Derek asked quietly. He realized he had never heard any of the handlers talking about their families.

            The room plunged into silence, and the scent of anxiety flooded in to replace the noise. "Derek!" Cora hissed under her breath, but Isaac reached out and laid a hand on her shoulder to still her.

            "It's okay," he said, then straightened up a little to meet Derek's gaze. "We aren't going home because we're already home. My mom left when I was a little kid, and my brother was killed in combat. Human-on-human combat, a-a skirmish about a decade ago in another country. My dad lost it after that, and walked right into a dragon pen to escape it all. Dragged me in with him, but she... didn't even touch me. Stiles was at the match, and took me in afterward."

            Derek swallowed whatever he might have said to that when Boyd spoke up next. "My parents were driving my sister and I to a skating park, where humans play on ice. The road was slippery, and they spun out, wrapped the car around a tree. I was the only one that made it out alive."

            "I'm sorry," Derek breathed. He didn't know what else to say. Of course humans lost their families sometimes, and some part of him knew that, but none of them had ever talked to him about it. The handlers in the pens didn't tell the supers anything. Certainly the Argents had never spoken to him of loss. He'd never, not once, felt _sorry_ for the humans.

            But these ones were _different_. These ones he had become close to, had come to know. These ones treated him - and all the other supers they handled - with kindness. They read books about the history between supers and humans, and they hugged werewolves coming back from a moon run. They wanted to see things change.

            "It's not your fault," Erica said from the other end of the table as she picked a piece of bacon from the hooded serving tray. "It's no one's fault."

            "What about your family?" Derek asked quietly. "What happened to them?"

            She chuckled. "Oh, nothing _happened_ to them. They just live pretty far away and we don't get along well." Reaching over, she slipped her hand under Boyd's and smiled at him. "Much better company here."

            Rolling his eyes, Boyd grasped her hand and looked at Derek. "Her family refused to get her treatment," he said. Erica's nose wrinkled and she made an unconvincing noise of protest. "She had seizures for most of her life, which can be treated effectively - and sometimes even be cured - but it's a pretty hefty price tag."

            "They didn't have the money," Erica said, but it sounded like an old, tired argument and one she didn't particularly buy, herself.

            "They left you at-" Boyd began.

            "Vernon," Erica interrupted, almost a plea. "Not today, please."

            Derek watched the exchange in silence, not sure what to say about any of it. He'd never seen anyone afflicted with seizures, but if it had a treatment, he assumed it was some sort of disease. He couldn't smell anything wrong with her now, though, which meant that whatever it was had been taken care of. He glanced to Stiles, who was watching the two handlers intently.

            "It's okay if you don't want to visit them," Stiles said after a moment, drawing their attention to him. "No one will ever make you go, but you know you're welcome to, if you ever change your mind."

            "I know," Erica said. "I don't want to, though. I have everyone I need right here, so can we just- don't make me start force-feeding all of you so we can get to movie watching."

            "I vote we each load a plate and take it with us," Isaac chimed in, and just like that the heavy mood melted, giving way to the happier, easier atmosphere they'd had before Derek opened his mouth.

            Following Isaac's suggestion, they each piled a plate with food - everything from cinnamon rolls to bacon to sliced fresh fruit - and marched down to the entertainment room together. Derek hesitated in the entryway, watching everyone take their seats- Boyd beside Erica, Cora on the beanbag chairs near Isaac, Stiles on the short, black couch. Stiles waved him over, and Derek looked pointedly at the television.

            "Don't we need to pick a movie?" he said. Erica let out a short, sharp bark of laughter.

            "You pick!" she said.

            "Don't let him pick," Cora argued, settling her plate in her lap. "He doesn't watch movies."

            Stiles managed to mostly hide a smile, and got Derek's attention with a little wave. "You can pick one if you want, but I pulled a few last night that we might want to watch today. They're in that stack of cases," he said, motioning toward a pile of cases that had probably been a stack before they had tipped over.

            With enough direction from everyone, Derek managed to get the discs into the slim little player, and Stiles took over with the remote as soon as the tongue of the device retracted. As Stiles got the movie started, Derek took a seat on the opposite side of the couch from him, balancing his plate on the arm.

            The movies were less than involved, which turned out to be a good thing, as Derek discovered that "movie watching" on a holiday was more about talking than it was about paying attention to the screen. Cora left to get her camera at one point, and she brought Derek's new book back with her as well, tossing it into his lap with a solid thump. Isaac helped Cora figure out the camera and load it with film, and she began snapping photos of everything and everyone. Luckily, the clacking noise it made was ignorable.

            In fact, the camera and the talking and the movies all faded to background noise as Stiles scooted over to sit close and listen to Derek sound out the words on a few of the pages. With Stiles' soft encouragement, he read aloud a story about a group of centaurs that had raised a lost human child. Across from it was an image of a proud, young woman astride the back of a centaur. Another story told of a field scientist that for years had lived on steep cliffs amongst a colony of angels, flying the ocean air currents on a homemade gliding contraption. The image that accompanied it showed him in the air, surrounded by a flock of gleeful winged creatures.

            The last image in the book, which Derek accidentally spotted while counting the number of stories and pictures Boyd had managed to collect or compose for him, was very familiar to Derek. The young woman and the alpha resting beneath the old tree. Derek ran his fingers softly over it, tracing the outlines of the pristine picture. Boyd had handwritten a few words in the margins, something which would never make it to a reprinted edition. _Saved the best for last. Hope you like it._

            Derek's gaze slipped sideways to the text on the opposite page. This one, he didn't read aloud to Stiles. He sounded out each word in his head, feeling out the story of Etta DeMarque and her werewolf companion, Duke Roland Gagnon. She had traveled into his town, a merchant's daughter guiding a wagon of exotic goods from far away. Legend said, the excerpt read, that he invited her entire caravan to his court that very eve and threw an impromptu gala just so that he might have an excuse to dance with her.

            The story went that he came to her caravan dressed as a commoner, and asked her to join him in a dance. One dance turned into two, turned into an entire night of dancing, lost in the music, lost in one another. At the end of the night, as he escorted her back to her caravan wagon, he asked if she would consider staying there, with him. However, she loved to see the world and couldn't give up traveling, and so she declined. At his crestfallen look, she suggested that perhaps their caravan could use an extra hand, if he could possibly find it in him to leave such a beautiful place.

            He answered that no place could be beautiful enough without her in it.

            When they reached her wagon, it is said that her father recognized the Duke immediately from their earlier dealings, and agreed to wait. It took Roland less than two weeks to appoint a suitable replacement for his position and straighten his affairs enough that he could depart. He gave up everything, save a few precious belongings and his two favorite steeds, and set off with the caravan at her side.

            Derek smiled, heart twisted up in his throat as he finished reading the last words. His gaze shifted to the image, tracing the lines of her fingers in his fur, the peaceful way his head rested on her lap. Underneath, the caption that had been in another language had been translated.

            _Peace in the Orchard. Roland Gagnon and his heartbond, Etta DeMarque._ _Arles_ _,_ _France_ _._

            Heartbond.

            He had heard the word, though he hadn't known humans knew it, and was impressed Boyd had found an accurate translation. Looking over to where Boyd sat curled up with Erica, Derek wondered if Boyd actually _had_ managed to translate it, or if he only taken a guess at what was written. He wondered if any human knew that wolves chose their mates by the bonds their hearts made, if they were even aware wolves bonded at all. He looked to Cora, curled up asleep around her new camera, and felt relief wash through him that she was away from the breeding pens, that she was safe here. Maybe she would even be allowed to choose her own mate, if she wanted one.

            His attention shifted to Stiles, who was leaning back against the arm of the chair, sleepily watching the movie, his feet tucked under Derek to keep warm. Gently, he closed the book and set it on the floor beside the couch. He could feel Stiles watching him, and when he looked up, Stiles smiled.

            “Good day?” Stiles mumbled, shifting to burrow a little more deeply into the couch.

            Derek snorted softly, crossing his arms and settling in as well. “Very,” he rumbled.

            “You want to make dinner soon?” Stiles asked.

            Craning his neck, Derek looked over his shoulder to see where Erica and Boyd had fallen asleep on the other couch. He guessed that they would not be waking up to make food for everyone anytime soon, but he didn’t mind. Any time he could get into the kitchen and learn how to use the myriad cooking utensils that cluttered every hook and cabinet was a chance he would happily take.

            “Okay,” he agreed.

            It was still a while before they managed to find the energy to actually rouse themselves and slip out the door. As it turned out, Stiles was incredibly terrible at cooking anything, a fact which secretly pleased Derek. Stiles let him slice cheese with a board and wire contraption while he cut cubes of sausage and dumped them into a bowl. They loaded up a tray with the meat and cheese and Stiles added two boxes of crackers and took a huge bowl of fruit from the cooler, which Derek ended up carrying back due to how heavy it was.

            They woke everyone when they returned and they all sat on the floor passing the food around and around. With the movies turned off, someone suggested that they practice their singing. Isaac taught Derek a solstice song about chasing the light to the horizon at dusk, and Erica and Cora practically shouted a jaunty tune about drinking and dancing. He admitted that he only knew one song, and they coaxed the few notes he could remember out of him. Boyd followed with a few more notes and a hopeful look, and Derek could only stare at him.

            “That’s it,” Derek said, awed. “That’s the song our mother used to sing.”

            “It’s a lullaby,” Boyd told him. “I don’t know the words, but I’ve seen the notes on paper a couple times. I’m sure I could find it for you, if you want.”

            “Please,” Derek said without hesitation. Heat flushed at his ears at the brashness of the plea. “If it’s not too much trouble, that is. You've already done so much.”

            Boyd laughed, but told him it was no problem, and the group finished their dinner together with a few more songs. Stiles agreed to one more movie and Cora volunteered one that was so dull Derek found himself dozing off on the couch, his legs kicked out and his chin tucked to his chest.

            Though he had only meant to doze, he found himself being nudged awake by Stiles as the credits scrolled up the screen. At some point the lights had been turned off, and Derek could hear the soft breathing of Erica and Boyd, but Cora and Isaac had both disappeared. Derek yawned, arching his back in a languid stretch, relishing the feel of the soreness leeching from his joints as it healed.

            "Bedtime?" he mumbled, voice scratchy.

            Stiles hummed a noise of agreement as he clicked off the television. Instead of crossing the room or raising his voice, Stiles tossed a pillow into Erica's lap to wake her. She startled up with a yelp, dumping Boyd onto the floor from where he'd fallen asleep in her lap. Unable to keep quiet, Stiles burst into raspy, tired laughter as Boyd righted himself, looking for whatever had upset Erica. She chucked the pillow back at Stiles' head, making a face when Derek intercepted it with ease.

            "Suck up," she groused, but it was clear even to Derek that she didn't mean any insult by it.

            The handlers managed to get to their feet and trudge out of the room with quiet well wishes to both Derek and Stiles, their footsteps fading slowly up the stairs. Derek stood watching Stiles as he finished tidying up, eyes sticky with sleep. He wondered if they would have to get up early the following day, or if he could sleep in as he had done a few times since arriving. He wondered if Stiles would sleep in, too.

            A moment later, he allowed Stiles to herd him from the room and close the door behind them, and then followed him through the manor back toward their bedrooms. There was no particular hurry to the journey, no pressure to fill the silence with anything other than half-hearted footsteps and sleepy snuffles of breath. They reached his room first, though Derek was tired enough he didn't realize it was his room until Stiles was gently tugging him into it and he saw the pile of bedding that was his den.

            The warmth of happiness flushed through him at the sight, and he gently slipped his wrist from Stiles' grasp. Before Stiles could decide it meant he should move away, Derek threaded their fingers together, anchoring him. Derek opened his mouth, wanting to say something about how soft Stiles' hand was, how warm he felt, how content he was. He wanted to let Stiles know that he had enjoyed his day, from the cinnamon roll the started the morning to that very moment, but the words caught in his throat.

            "Stay," he hissed out instead. He hadn't meant to sound so _wanting_ , but there was no way around it; he _wanted_ Stiles to stay. He wanted to fall asleep listening to his heartbeat, to feel him breathing, to know that he wasn't alone, even if just for one night.

            "Derek..." Stiles admonished gently, and Derek _knew_ there were a million and one reasons why Stiles shouldn't stay, but there were a million and two reasons Derek wanted him to, so he flexed his fingers more tightly into Stiles' instead of waiting for an excuse.

            "Please," he said, soft and pleading, drawing Stiles closer by inches. "One more present. Just stay for a little while."

            He could hear Stiles' heartbeat thrumming beneath his skin as he searched Derek's eyes for something. Finally he let out a breath, and returned Derek's grasp. "Okay," he said.

            Before he could think too much about it, Derek leaned forward and brushed his lips against Stiles' as he had seen Erica and Boyd do. The contact elicited a small, broken noise from Stiles, but instead of pulling away, he pressed back, the fingers of his free hand curling gracefully into the fabric of Derek's shirt to pull him a little closer.

            For a moment the whole entire world gave way to the sensation of Stiles, and Derek thought he might understand why humans did this.

            Then Stiles pulled back, eyes closed, and the moment passed.

            "Sleep," Stiles croaked weakly.

            "Okay," Derek agreed, leading Stiles over the edge of the den and into the soft middle. He let Stiles lie down and arrange himself first, waiting for him to be comfortable before he curled up at his side. Tentatively, he laid his head on Stiles' belly, listening to the near-deafening sound of his heartbeat.

            Stiles made no move to shift him away and a second later, his fingers threaded hesitantly into Derek's hair. It felt _right_ , so much so that it was only moments before Derek was soundly asleep, surrounded by the warmth and scent of Stiles.

 

* * *

_Arenas may host up to three (3)_

_Division 2 matches per day_

_unless they are a Division 1 &2 specific arena_

* * *

 

            "Remember what I told you." Stiles voice was dim, a crackle in his ear instead of his usual smooth tones. Before they'd left the house, Stiles had warned him that this arena was one of the older ones, and the grating that formed the arena cage would interfere with the signal.

            "I can do this alone," Derek assured him, poking his head out past the newly opened gate. Only a gentle murmur reached him from the ocean of people watching and waiting above him. He'd been to plenty of large arenas, but never one so packed full of humans. "Big crowd."

            Laughter crackled through like static. "Someone brought a roc down from the north. That's a pretty rare fight no matter what it's up against, but the other piece is a manticore. They're related to chimera, but I've never actually seen one. I'd bet very few here have seen one, either."

            Derek didn't know what a manticore was, but if it was anything like the chimera at the manor, he knew he didn't want to meet one. Above him, the gate began to slide closed and he stepped fully into the arena to avoid being disqualified by being locked inside the pen. The pit looked old, the caging black instead of shiny silver, the ceiling of it flat instead of domed. There were thick, wooden posts, half as wide as Derek's armspan, holding up the ceiling caging from below. He was sure the supports went deep into the foundation.

           Across from him, slogging heavily through the arena sands, was his opponent. He hadn't actually fought a troll before, but he’d heard they weren't allowed into Division 3 and below due to the fact that they couldn't be trained to stop at first blood. Looking at the hulking creature, he could believe it; the light of intelligence so bright in most fighter's eyes was completely absent.

            Stiles had gone over information with him about trolls, everything from their known history in the games to what problems Derek might face. They were slow but determined, not easily deterred by pain, not distracted by sudden movements. Whatever immense strength they had, they were dull-witted. Their teeth were made for tearing, not piercing.

            "Don't let it bite you," had been repeated to Derek at least thirty times. "They're not venomous, but they _are_ filthy."

            This one seemed to fit every description he’d been given, every grainy photo he’d been shown. Even hunched over, the beast stood much taller than Derek, its front arms thick and corded with muscle. The thing's hands could easily have spanned Derek's whole chest if splayed, and he was thankful that weapons weren't allowed; a club or even a tree branch in those hands would be too deadly. Testing out its speed, Derek moved to the right and the creature course-corrected immediately, dull brown eyes trained upon him.

            A dozen yards left between them now.

            "Any last words of wisdom?" Derek muttered, skirting around the closest support beam, thankful that there was so much room to move around. When he emerged on the other side, the troll caught sight of him and moved to follow.

            "Don't keep your distance," Stiles told him simply.

            "Right," Derek said, resigning himself to the fight. Trolls were slow, Stiles had told him. They were top-heavy with those long arms and that broad chest; getting close to their feet was the easiest way to unbalance them. Soft spots, he told himself as he dug his claws into the warm, wet sand, and took off for the creature. He'd been told to seek out the soft spots.

            He dodged the first heavy blow from the huge fist, dashing to the side to get around to the troll's hind leg. The creature reared up, bringing its hands above its head and clasping them together as it rotated around to find him. Before it could bring its formidable attack down upon him, Derek darted in and sank the claws of both hands into the soft back of its knee, tearing out again as the troll kicked him away from it.

            The acrid scent of blood blossomed in the air, hot spatters of it coloring the sand a moment before the troll shifted weight to its good leg with a guttural snarl. Derek snarled back, eyes flashing brighter blue, and then ran in again, ignoring the swelling cheers of the crowd.

            It slammed a gnarled hand down in front of him, blocking him as he tried to skirt around it the same way he’d just done. Without thinking, he jumped on, rebounding from its curled fist to unbalance it and latching onto its back with hands and feet, hind claws scrabbling against the thick, leathery skin.

            "Soft spot, soft spot!" Stiles crackled in his ear, sounding a million miles away.

            With a chest-deep growl, Derek snapped his mouth open and clamped teeth down on the soft spot behind the troll's jaw, feeling sticky-hot liquid welling up as the creature roared. The world shuddered under Derek and a moment later the breath was knocked out of him as the troll slammed its back against one of the pillars.

            He had to let go to take a sharp breath and the second he was free, thick fingers grabbed at him, wrenching him up and away by one arm. Despite his best effort to scratch a hand hold into the flesh of its forearm, the creature wrapped both huge hands around him and began to shake him.

            "Close your mouth," came the voice in his ear, barely audible over the click of his teeth as the troll rattled him. Pain was spiking in the back of his head, but he obeyed, keeping his teeth closed so he wouldn't bite his own tongue. "Focus. Soft spot isn't the hand, it's the crook of the elbow if you can reach it. Between the fingers if you can't, Derek."

 _Between the fingers_.

            The words rolled around in his head for just a moment before he gathered enough wit to plunge claws into the webbing between the troll's thumb and forefinger.

            It _howled_ , dropping him to the ground like a ragdoll.

            Groaning, he clambered to his feet, chest on fire and head pounding. "No more trolls," he rasped out, moving away as the troll shook its injured hand, flecking more blood into the sand. Stiles' chuckle was comforting.

            "You're doing fine," Stiles said. "Get a little distance, give yourself space to heal. I picked this arena because the pillars should give you some time."

            Derek didn't bother answering, just dragged himself over to the closest pillar and used it to block the troll's view as he moved to one farther away. As he walked, he took count- 12 pillars, and only four of them in reach. Behind him, he could hear the troll stumbling toward him, ungainly on its injured leg.

            He put his back to the pillar and took a few deep breaths, willing his ribs to heal up faster. As the pain began to fade from his head, he could hear the confused troll searching around the base of the pillar he'd first hidden behind, and allowed himself a smile of relief. It wouldn't give him a lot of time, but he’d bought enough to move a little easier. Vaguely, he could hear an arena announcer describing the fight, talking to the audience about the physical attributes of trolls and werewolves in a droning, toneless voice.

            The moment Derek could take a breath without feeling like there were still two troll-sized hands wrapped around his chest, he slipped around the edge of the pillar and took off charging straight at the creature. It had plenty of time to see him coming, but it was slow in raising its hands, clasping them together as it had done before.

            It should have been an easy dodge, but just as he got within range the troll _bellowed_.

            He shouldn't have hesitated, and he knew he shouldn't have, but it was reflex that sent him sprawling, hands clamped over his ears to ward off the pain of the noise as it trampled through his skull. He might have screamed, but he couldn't tell over the sound quivering the entire arena around him.         

            The blow landed heavily on one of his legs, too quick for him to roll away from completely. Howling, he lashed out, striking at the troll's face and leaving ragged tracks across its cheek as he tried to get away. Its heavy brow protected its eye, but only just. It wasn't enough of a deterrent to keep the troll from grabbing at him with its three thick fingers and dragging him in closer by his injured leg.

            Sparks zapped in his ear as blood hit the earpiece, though he couldn't hear anything but hollow emptiness and a far off ringing sound. _Don't let it bite you_ echoed in his memory as the troll pulled him in, and so he struggled, spitting and snarling through the pain, raking his claws at the looming face again and again.

            Through the shock, he barely felt the dull teeth tearing at the skin of one of his arms as the troll caught it.

            _Don't let it bite you_ , Stiles had told him.

            _Don't let it_ -

            With a roar, Derek brought his free hand around and plunged his claws into the troll's eye. It opened its mouth in a shriek he couldn't hear, but the motion released him from its jaws. Derek tightened his grip inside the socket before yanking, getting enough leverage with his uninjured leg to vault away.

            He dropped roughly to the sand and tossed his trophy aside, trying to catch his breath through the pain as he watched the troll upside down from his back. It was stumbling blindly around, clutching at its now empty socket. If any noise escaped its gaping jaws, the sound was drowned in the stifling silence, the distant tone permeating his hearing.

            His arm _ached_ , and he wiped his hand through the blood, drawing away goopy saliva that smelled like rot. The fight had just been put on a timer, he realized. He wasn't going to heal, not with the infectious bacteria of the saliva infesting his system.

            There was no running on his injured leg; he was barely capable of limping at this point, but the troll wasn't much better off, still clawing at its eye like it could remove whatever was causing it so much pain. Distantly, he could hear the muted roar of the crowd, cheering for the death that was surely imminent, and as much as he wanted to be angry, he could find only relief that he hadn't completely lost his hearing.

            Rolling over, he clambered as upright as he could manage and began trudging toward the recovering troll, who seemed to have realized it wasn't quite dying. The sand was soaked in blood from both of them, the color of rust under Derek's feet. He could feel the blood loss, knew he wasn't healing like he should, and desperation began to seep into his gut.

            "Hey!" he shouted, the sound warping through his damaged eardrums. Though he knew it would afford him no added protection, he tucked his injured arm closer to his chest as the troll turned. Its face was a mess of claw marks and blood, the hollow socket dark and raw.

            Derek hadn't planned farther than shouting, so he just stood there watching the world tip dizzyingly to the left. It seemed like even the crowd above them was holding its breath as they regarded each other for a few heartbeats. Maybe it was waiting, he thought. If it just waited long enough, Derek would pass out from blood loss, and it would win. He wondered if trolls were smart enough for that sort of strategy.

            He wondered how long it would be before it didn't matter one way or another.

            Dragging his crushed leg, Derek took one more hop-step and snarled a threat. The troll straightened some, baring its teeth in response, though whatever sound it made muted out before it reached Derek. He crouched, letting the thing lumber toward him on three legs, blood dripping thickly from chin and chest and injured leg.

            When it reached him, Derek crouched to run, but allowed just a moment too long before he sprung. The troll grabbed him by his good leg and yanked him backward, sending him crashing into the blood-wet sand. He managed to grab a handful of it before finding himself lifted upside down into the air. Whatever blood he had left rushed to his head, sending the whole world black for a moment.

            It leaned back on its haunches, but before it could get its other hand around Derek, he chucked the handful of sand into its good eye. It was a last-resort, but one that worked. The world listed as the troll reflexively jerked him toward its face to wipe at the sand, grip crushing his leg in the process.

            The motion brought him just within range, just like he wanted, and Derek curled in, reaching his arms around either side of the troll's thick neck. On one side, his claws found the marks he'd torn in the skin earlier, just behind the jaw.

            With the last of his strength, Derek flexed his claws into the troll's neck, dragging them through tendon and skin as the troll tried to tear him off again.

            Most of the troll's throat came off with him.

            His back hit the sand, and the world went black.

 

* * *

_Failure to present a clean_

_record of health ticket will_

_result in forfeit of the match_

* * *

           

            In the darkness, he could hear something insistently making noise, rhythmic and harsh. He could hear muted voices, at least three of them, though he didn't recognize any of them. It felt like he was buried under a ton of ash and floating a mile from the ground at the same time. Beneath him, it didn't feel like there was arena sand; it felt cold and hard and he realized he didn't know what the inside of the red boxes felt like.

            Maybe this was it, he thought.

            He found he couldn't move to find out, his limbs leaden with something so much worse than exhaustion or blood loss. Briefly he wondered if this was what death was, just consciousness in blackness, unable to move, unable to speak, unable to do anything but endure whatever happened until his body disintegrated enough to release his mind.

            A sliver of light pierced the darkness, grey and white blobs shifting and spinning through his cracked eye.

            It made him dizzy, and the darkness flooded in again.

            "What a pain in the ass," one of the voices said, clearer than before. It was a woman, a human. "Just tell him his fucking _pet_ died and redbox it for him. He got his money."

            There was a laugh from somewhere in the distance that wavered and twisted around like swirling water. "Yeah, right. I can go hand in my letter of resignation right after. More swabs, Colby. Geezus this is a mess." There was a pause then, long enough for Derek to feel like the room had taken a giant swoop downward.

            When sound filtered back in, he heard: "-to the euth room. We don't -- blood for --- -- still black."

            "Call its warden." It was the same voice that had defended him before. He tried to move, to say something, give some indication that he was willing to fight, still. Willing to survive this if they could help him. Nothing happened. "If -- back up supply --- -- -- save it."

            "Shouldn't bother," the woman grumbled. Derek heard clacking and rustling to his left.

            "Just -- -- Lissa," said the third voice. It sounded cranky. "Lucky -- -- report you."

            Darkness swallowed Derek up again after that, and he let it cradle him in peace and quiet. They were going to kill him, bleed him out and put him in a redbox and send him back to the manor, but at least it would be over. At least he'd be back with his sister, back with Stiles and the others. Safe. No more fighting.

            The voices were gone when the darkness receded for the last time. His head was fuzzy with medication and his head didn't hurt anymore. He cracked one eye open and the ceiling of a vet clinic wavered into focus. There was a tube down his throat that he didn't have the strength to try to remove. It just rushed cool, sterile air in and out as he let his eyes slowly adjust to the brightness of the room.

            They hadn't let him die.

            His mind blanked at the thought, and he found himself staring up at the bland ceiling. He struggled to find any thread of thought but everything kept slipping away like water through cupped hands, like someone had stuffed his head full of oil and everything was far too slippery to grasp. Whatever they had given him wasn't wearing any thinner through his healing abilities.

           He closed his eyes, waiting for the world to stabilize, waiting for his head to come into focus like the ceiling had done. As there was no other way to gauge the passing of time, he counted heartbeats, though he had to keep starting over because he was slower at counting than his heart was at beating. Even so, it was a long time before he felt ready to open his eyes again.

            This time, he managed to loll his head to the side just enough to look around the room. It was empty save for machinery, a very uncomfortable looking chair, and the dark figure slumped in it. He was sound asleep, mouth slacked open and limbs sprawled in an ungainly fashion, but at the moment he was the most welcome sight Derek had ever seen.

            When he tried to call Stiles' name, his throat constricted around the tube down his throat and fifteen different machines started screaming and beeping all at once.

            Instantly the room was filled with people, Erica and Boyd first. Derek didn't have the strength to even attempt to sit up, but the feeling of tube down his throat had sent him coughing uncontrollably. Stiles was on his feet, looking blearily around at the commotion as two vets joined the chaos. As everyone was moving around, Derek caught sight of Erica and Boyd doing more to control the vet's movements than to control him, and he was grateful.

            One of the vets, a male, moved in close enough to put his hands on Derek's face. "I'm not going to hurt you, buddy," he said soothingly, voice low and even. He recognized it- the man who had been talking through the darkness. Derek didn't bother struggling, just let him slide the tube out of his throat. The vet moved back quickly, and Erica laid a gentle hand on Derek's shoulder to give the illusion of control.

            The other vet, another male, was turning off the screaming machines one by one after writing down whatever information they were spitting out. "It's good. Vitals are good," he called out to the first vet. "I'll get Sam down to have a look."

            "Thanks, Colby," the first vet said. With Erica's hand on Derek, he seemed to be a little more at ease, moving in again to flick a light into Derek's eyes and ears. The world spun around at the sound the light made when it touched the shell of his ear."You gave your warden quite the scare, big guy," he said. "Lucky he likes you so much."

            "Is he-" Stiles started.

            "He's going to be fine, Warden Stilinski," the vet said, turning his easy smile to Stiles now. "It looks like his body's healing has started to kick in over the drugs, which is what we were hoping would happen. We got all the saliva cleaned out so you shouldn't lose him, but he's still not gonna have a fun couple days ahead of him.

            "Thank you," Stiles said, eyes never leaving Derek. The relief in his tone was almost palpable.

            Summoning every scrap of strength he had, Derek twitched his hand up and curled blunt fingers into the edge of the vet's sleeve. The vet froze, eyes wide, but neither Erica nor Boyd moved to interfere. Derek knew he couldn't make up his own words to thank the vet that had saved him, but he had to say something. Without this man, the others might have taken the easy route and just let him die.

            "Thank you," Derek rasped out, using the same inflection as Stiles had.

            The vet broke into a smile, and gently peeled Derek's weak grip loose, setting his hand down on the table. "He's really an amazing creature, sir," he said to Stiles. "I've heard some of them can mimic human speech. Even though I see a lot of them, it's rare to hear it."

            "Do you ever suppose it's not mimicry?" Stiles asked quietly, shifting his gaze up to meet the vet's eyes. "That maybe they can speak just like we can?"

            The vet glanced down to Derek, then back to Stiles, swallowing. No matter how smoothly he answered, the scent of anxiety rushed into the cramped space. "Sometimes I wonder, sir. But that would be an awful lot of trouble if that were true."

            "Yeah," Stiles said, nodding a little as he dropped his gaze back to Derek. "A whole lot."

            The room fell silent for a moment until Derek coughed harshly, throat still dry from the breathing tube. The vet jumped and took a step toward the door. "I'll get the papers drawn up, so you can all get home."

            "Thank you," Stiles repeated, tossing him a cursory smile.

            They all waited until the door was closed, until the footsteps faded out of earshot, and then Erica moved away from him, grabbing Boyd's elbow on the way past as Stiles all but climbed onto the table beside him.

            "Don't ever do that again," he said, grabbing Derek's face in both hands. "Are you okay? Does it hurt? I can get more-"

            "Water," Derek croaked, and Stiles let out a laugh that snagged on his relief, cutting it short.

            "Of course, yes, water," he said in a rush, skirting around the end of the table to get to the little sink in the corner. He picked up the cup of water waiting there and helped Derek sit to drink it. They didn't speak as he downed it in sips, coughing in between.

            Finally, he let his uninjured arm rest in his lap, fingers wrapped weakly around the cup. He risked a sidelong glance at Stiles. "They took me to the euthanasia room." The fighters called it the red room, but Stiles had explained what it was in detail to him one night. He didn't like the word _euthanasia_. It was too humane sounding for what they did to his people.

            "They tried," Stiles said quietly, reaching up and running a warm hand over the back of Derek's head, gently over his neck. "They asked me about six hundred times to sign the damn release paper."

            "It would have been-"

            "Wrong," Stiles said over the top of his words. "It would have been the worst decision of my life, the most despicable act I could ever perform. Derek, I would never do that to you. Look at me."

            Derek closed his eyes, and Stiles roughed a noise at the back of his throat, hands sliding onto either side of Derek's jaw, turning his head just a little. Reluctantly, Derek opened his eyes and was met by the full force of Stiles' concern.

            "You are precious for a million reasons that have nothing to do with money, or the pit." He swallowed, gaze dipping for just a heartbeat before dragging up to look Derek in the eyes. "I would _never_ sanction allowing anyone to cull you for any reason, okay?"

            "Okay," Derek agreed softly. He could smell Stiles' relief.

            "Okay," Stiles repeated, leaning in as he pulled Derek just a little closer, gently touching their foreheads together. Derek let go of the cup and circled his fingers around one of Stiles' wrists, and for a few long breaths, they just existed like that, soaking in one another's presence.

            "Can we go home now?" Derek mumbled at last.

            Stiles chuckled, the same choppy, relief-riddled noise he'd made earlier. "Yeah," he said, releasing Derek. "Yeah, we can go home now."

 

* * *

_Wardens may choose to_

_waive treatment for injured game pieces_

_at the Arena veterinary clinic_

* * *

 

            Derek woke to the soft sound of his bedroom door opening. Sleep clung to him, stifling his senses, but Stiles announced himself before Derek even thought about guessing who it was. By the time Stiles had gotten them out of the clinic, it had already been dark outside, and the drive back had been arduous. Even so, with Stiles running on no sleep and Derek only sleeping through medication to mediate the pain of healing, Stiles had been in his room four times already to check on him.

            "I'm never going to get any sleep if you keep this up," Derek said, voice louder than he'd intended in the silent room.

            With a sigh, Stiles let himself in and closed the door before padding over to the edge of the den. He sat down like it was just too much energy to be graceful, and laid his head on the edge of the blankets. "Yeah, well, I'll never get any sleep if I don't know if you're okay."

            "I'm fine," Derek said, then amended: "I'll _be_ fine."

            "For how long?" Stiles asked, eyes closing. "How many more fights until something worse happens? I can't- I shouldn't have put you up against that troll. I should have picked a piece that was-"

            "Smarter?" Derek interrupted, turning gingerly onto his side, eyes glowing soft blue in the darkness as his body drew on his strength to heal. "I don't feel guilty over killing that creature. There wasn't anything staring back from its eyes, nothing to haunt my nightmares. It was as good a choice as any."

            Stiles shifted enough to lift his arm, stretching out he could lace his fingers with Derek's before settling. "I guess," he said softly. "I'm going to pick your next fight on Thursday. Any requests?"

            Derek closed his eyes. There were a lot of people he didn't want to encounter in a fight, some because they would be tricky to kill, some because he wasn't sure how he would live with himself if he managed to win. In the end, though, he knew that narrowing Stiles' choices might lengthen the amount of time it took to get through this or cause him to choose something that really would kill Derek.

            "Something smaller," he said finally, and that drew a huff of laughter from Stiles.

            "Sure," he said. "I'll send a request to Danny tomorrow morning so he can find some candidates."

            "He's... like Lydia, isn't he," Derek said, more conclusion than question.

            "No one's _like_ _Lydia_ ," Stiles answered anyway, with another laugh. "But yeah. He picks who and where and when everyone goes to fight."

            "I've never met him." He tipped his head enough to open his eyes and see Stiles staring at him in contemplation. "I mean, he hasn't come to your gatherings. Does he... does he know what you're doing?"

           "Yeah," Stiles told him, though it was entirely unconvincing. "I told him, and so did Lydia, but he says it's stupid. That, you know, we're not going to get anywhere with it. _The world doesn't want to change, Stiles_. That's what he always tells me."

            "He's still helping you anyway?" Derek asked.

            Stiles' grin was warm in the darkness. "I don't think he believes it's that stupid," he said. "He has to visit all my fighters to get recent pictures to circulate and I think that... well, if things were different, I think he'd probably spend even more time in the twins' pen than he already does. So, I think he wants to see it all change, to help them out at least, but having hope can be scary."

            That surprised Derek, though he didn't say it aloud. He'd assumed that Stiles was different than other humans, that he had somehow found affection for the supers, but he made it sound as if his Danny was friends with Ethan and Aiden as well. If it wasn't just Stiles, perhaps there were others, waiting for a chance to change things they couldn't change alone. It made him feel small and big and more than a little daunted to wonder how many humans were watching what he and Stiles were doing, waiting to see if they could break the rules to make them anew.

            "Things would have to be pretty different, I think," Derek whispered. "It's a lot to hope for."

            "Yeah," Stiles said. It sounded resigned. He took a deep breath, and forced a smile. "I won't give up if you don't."

            He smiled, but didn't reciprocate the promise; there was no way to know if he could keep it. He considered suggesting that Stiles go get some sleep instead, but he found he didn't really want to be alone. So he lifted their twined hand, and tugged just enough that Stiles got the hint and sat up.

            "Come on," Derek murmured softly, gut swooping at the easy command. "We both need sleep."

            For only a heartbeat, Stiles hesitated, long enough for Derek to give another gentle tug to his hand, and then he practically oozed into the nest of blankets and pillows and clothing, curling up around Derek like he thought he could protect him from the whole entire world. As the darkness swept in, he found himself thinking that if anyone was capable of protecting him, it was certainly Stiles.

 

 

* * *

_All Division 2 and below arenas_

_must be constructed with the ability_

_to house at least three pairs of game pieces_

* * *

 

            Stiles rapped smartly on the thin wooden door and then took a step back to wait. Inside he could hear Danny rustling papers around, the squeak of his desk chair, and then the door swung open. Danny didn't stay there long enough to say anything by way of greeting, just returned to shuffling through papers on his desk. Without a word, Stiles stepped in and gently clicked the door shut behind him.

           "You're early," Danny said, not looking up. He stacked three brown folders atop one another at the edge of the desk.

            "Sorry," Stiles apologized, dipping his head a little. "Isaac chased me out of the barn."

            "At least someone over there has good sense," Danny quipped back. "You're a real pain in my ass, you know that?"

            "I'm flattered," Stiles grinned. Danny slapped him in the chest with a folder that he scrambled to grab before anything fell out, and they took seats on opposite sides of the large desk. "How many did you find?"

            "Six," Danny said, pushing everything else to the side and opening his own folder. Inside were game piece dossiers, which he removed and placed in a line facing himself.

            Stiles opened the folder he'd been given and pulled out his copies, following suit. Three shifters, a gorgon, a faun, and a harpy. He pushed aside the gorgon and the harpy without bothering to read anything, and Danny mirrored him so that they both had four dossiers left.

            "It's a busy week," Danny told him. "If you wanted to wait a week, or even two, you might have more choices, but you said you wanted to get through these as quick as possible."

            "It's fine," Stiles said, pushing forward the faun's file. "Go."

            "Arteris, six fights in Div 2, nothing showy," Danny said, opening his file. "A couple first-fight shifters, a couple hobs, and a pixie. Couldn't have made much from the fight, probably covering board. Not a holding pattern, though, so fair game."

            Stiles closed the file, knowing Derek would see it the same as the hobgoblin from his first fight. Innocent. Easy. "I don't want the ARC thinking we coasted through this," he said, pulling out the final three files. One was a werewolf, one a bear shifter, and the last was a double-super, able to shift from human to draconian. Stiles pushed forward the draconian shifter. "Go."

            "Skolara," Danny said, wrinkling his nose a little. "Sixteen fights in Div 2, three in Div 1, seven weapons-in Div 3 fights over six years. Her warden retired her back to Div 2 three months ago after almost losing her to an actual dragon. Red Darter, if you want to know."

            "Mm," Stiles hummed noncommittally. Killigan's Darters were among the smaller of the dragon species, not a particularly impressive win, especially if she'd nearly died in the process. "At least she'd be good practice for Div 1 then."

            "I'd give him a couple more fights before trying to put them in the same room," Danny advised. "Odds would be great in her favor with him being a new fighter, which would be good if you were going for money, but you want him alive no matter what else."

            "Yeah," Stiles agreed, but he picked up the dossier and handed it to Danny instead of setting it aside. They could always come back to it later. "Send a note of interest then, maybe we can arrange a meeting down the line. So that leaves us with these two."

            Danny tapped the bear shifter's file. "Earl Grey," he said, cocking a little smile when Stiles raised an eyebrow.

            "I'm gonna guess it's not because he likes tea," Stiles said dryly.

            "I doubt it," Danny chuckled. "Grey fur; he's a little older than most, been through close to fifty Div 2 fights. Never fought Div 1, stayed in Div 3 until his warden decided he wasn't earning his keep. The warden's kind of a dick, but the piece seems like a good fighter. No dirty tricks, just good, solid fights."

            "But?" Stiles asked, sensing there was something Danny wasn't telling him.

            "He only does full-shift fights," Danny admitted with a little shrug. "You have the cert for it, but you'd have to register Derek under the protocol."

            "Ah," Stiles said, shaking his head. Full shift fights were tricky when the shifters had forms that were a similar size, but a bear shifter, certainly an older bear shifter, would be much more massive than Derek's wolf form. The registration for the protocol would also take almost two weeks, though he made a mental note to register anyway for next time.

            "I'll put him on the call back list," Danny said, not needing to ask why Stiles declined. Stiles had made no secret of not wanting to waste time between fights. He placed the file atop Skolara's for later.

            "Guess she's it then," Stiles said, tapping his copy of the last profile. "Blackfoot."

            Danny opened the file and shook his head a little. "Pretty standard wolf, decent warden," he remarked. "Four fights in Div 2, one weapons-in fight in Div 3. She's a new acquisition by Warden Harris, so he's probably just testing her out. He's got a really good track record for picking up winning pieces from random places."

            "So do I," Stiles said, eyes tracing over the dark hair of the werewolf, her deep, brown eyes glaring out from the page. "Well, see what you can do, yeah? Whatever date you can get within a week from Derek's due up date."

            "Sure," Danny said, setting the folder onto a clear space on the desk and clambering to his feet. "I'll give you a call, and I'll have the files for Duke and Kali's next fights by Sunday night."

            "Thanks, Danny," Stiles said sincerely, popping up as well. "You're the best."

            With a roll of his eyes, Danny herded Stiles toward the exit. He was very nearly successful until Stiles remembered there was one more reason he had wanted to come here in person instead of doing a vid chat. Whirling around, he just barely touched Danny's chest with one hand to halt them both.

            "There's, uh, one more thing," he said quickly, removing his hand from Danny's space when Danny raised an eyebrow. "I need information on some old fights. A deceased fighter from, like, fifteen years ago."

            Danny's nose wrinkled at the idea. "So go look them up in the public records," Danny said. "You know everyone's required to purge dec recs after five years."

           "Yeah, they are, and that's kind of the thing," Stiles said. "I found the records I was looking for, and they start off fine, but the further into her career you go, the more void marked information there is."

            That seemed to draw Danny up short. "Void marked?" he echoed, eyes drifting to the side as he considered everything that could mean. They both knew that official records were never blacked out unless there was something to hide. "You've got the originals?"

            "Copies," Stiles said. "I don't even know if the originals would be out there anywhere, but I was kind of hoping you could help track them down, or maybe find references to the fights somewhere else."

            "Who's the game piece?" Danny asked. There was little else Danny loved more than a challenge, and Stiles knew it.

            "Talia Hale," Stiles said slowly, meeting Danny's gaze.

 

* * *

_A Division 2 win is declared when_

_one of the game pieces has been_

_announced dead by arena officials_

* * *

 

            "Hey, hey," Derek heard from two pens over. "Hey, wolfie. Hey."

            Groaning under his breath, Derek shifted so that he could see through the slats in the metal wall. Crouched with its face to the lowest of the slats two pens over was a goblin. Derek had heard it gibbering to itself for the past hour or so, but the sound had been practically lost to the murmur of the crowd, easily ignored. Now, however, it was quiet as the arena prepared to switch Division crowds.

            "Yeah, I hear you," he said tiredly. He wasn't looking forward to setting foot in the arena again, even though he'd more than healed in the month since his encounter with the troll. He just wanted a few minutes of peace before his fight.

            The goblin shuffled closer to the slat, smushing its face against it to try to see Derek better. "Hey," it repeated. "You're the Hale, aren't you, wolfie?"

            Derek straightened up, looking hard through the slat, but all he could see was the goblin's snout. "What did you say?"

            "They says there's one here," the goblin said flippantly, then snuffled loudly. "An ash-wolf- hey, are you an ash-wolf, wolfie?"

            "Yeah," Derek said as he figured out what the creature was asking. He turned away from the slat and pressed his shoulders against the cool metal. He wondered how it had heard he would be here. "I'm Ashborn."

            "Oooh, glad I'm not across from you, ash-wolf," the goblin said in a hushed whisper. "They says Hale fight like demon. Never lose."

            Derek's nose wrinkled. Regardless of his recent troll fight, there was no way there were already rumors about him, not after just a couple of fights.

            The com in his ear ticked on, and Derek gave up talking to the goblin in favor of paying attention to Stiles. "You ready?" Stiles asked.

            "Yeah," Derek said softly. Erica and Boyd didn't even bother walking down the aisle to talk him into the arena anymore. "Just talking to my new goblin friend."

            Stiles snorted, tickling his ear with the vibration. "I'm sure that's a lot of really coherent fun."

            "Riveting," Derek said, clambering to his feet as he heard the murmur of the crowd rise. Stiles had told him he would be the first Division 2 fight of the evening. "He seemed to know I would be here, though. And he knew I was from the Hale facility."

            "I don't see how," Stiles said, but there was a waver to the words that told Derek he wasn't as confident of that as he wanted to sound. "I don't even have those records, and you're registered under Ashborn out of Argent Estate."

            "Well, he knew," Derek repeated.

            There was a long silence, long enough that Derek heard the arena announcer begin introducing the next two game pieces, and then: "I'll look into it. Just, focus on your fight okay? I don't want to have to watch them piece you back together again after this one."

            Derek smiled, but the gate was opening, so he just dropped to all fours and let the shift take him as far as his collar would allow. In a way, it was a shame that full-form fights were so restricted; fighting another wolf in his partial shift would feel much less natural. The killing blow would have to come from his claws instead of his teeth, and there was so much less dignity involved. Maybe he would talk to Stiles about it when they got home.

            The sand was wet, as usual, but it was warm to the touch, almost soothing. He bounded a couple paces into the arena and lifted himself partway onto his haunches to see the other side. It wasn't a large arena, not like the one where he'd fought the troll, but he couldn't see any movement. The other gate was still open, and his ears picked up a low, threatening growl from within the pen.

            The spark of a zap-stick illuminated the darkness inside the pen, and there was a shriek of fury followed by clanging that could only be claws against metal. Derek tipped his head a little, looking up to seek out Stiles' white suit in the crowd. He'd been told he was fighting another wolf, but no one had mentioned that it would be feral.

            There was a flash of white in the crowd as Stiles waved to him, and he dropped back to all fours. There was another zing of electricity, and the she-wolf howled like she'd been hit. A moment later she bolted from the recesses of the holding pen and into the light, turning almost immediately to snarl at the handlers that had forced her into the open. Above, the gate began to close, and she backed away from it, seemingly unaware Derek was even there.

            As the teeth of the gate met the cement floor, she turned to face him, bright red eyes wild.

            His breath stuck in his chest as he got a good look at her, caught her scent.

           "Stiles," he said as she crouched low, baring fangs at him. "I can't- you have to stop this, I can't fight her."

            The com clicked in his ear. "What? Why not?"

            He swallowed, already looking for the best way to get away from her or keep her at bay until the fight could be stopped. She seemed to sense his hesitation, and began to prowl forward.

            "Derek?" Stiles asked. Derek could hear him moving through the crowd, hopefully heading toward the warden's viewing center, where he would be allowed to forfeit the match. "Are you okay? What's wrong?"

            "I can't fight her," he said, frozen in place as she approached, heart pounding hard in his chest. The goblin hadn't been talking about him at all. There was a Hale here, but it wasn't him. "She's my sister, Stiles. It's Laura."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING: This chapter has several elements that may be triggers for some readers, including (but possibly not limited to) descriptions of a panic attack and mentions of past trauma/sexual abuse.** Please be careful, and if you need to know what happens without reading, feel free to [ask](http://kedreeva.tumblr.com/ask) or leave a comment and I will respond.

 

* * *

_Any match which does not reach the_

_five-minute duration shall result in the_

_victorious warden forfeiting any earnings_

* * *

 

            Even as Laura tore toward him, his muscles remained frozen, his breath catching in his chest before he could repeat himself to Stiles. He thought he could hear a ringing in his ears, though not the same ringing that had flooded in after the troll's bellow. This was worse; the endless tone consumed his thoughts, took over his ability to think so that all of his senses seemed to melt into one terrifying amalgamation of panic.

            Laura.

            Alive.

            For years, he had assumed she was dead, that she had died in the fire. He knew there was sand beneath his feet now, but it felt like _ashes_. It felt like the smoking, stinking ruins of what had arguably been his home, and he could feel it clogging up his lungs as it had done sixteen years ago.

            He had found her collar.

            They'd taken it from him, but he had _found her collar_.

            He'd taken the metal ring from the charred bones of a wolf in shift, and he had knelt in the smoldering ash, and he had curled up beside her with a sob, because he could still hear her laugh and feel her arms around him as she hugged him, and then she was _dead_.

            _She was dead_.

            She was _gone_.

            She hit him like a troll, tackling him into the damp sand, and reality rushed in to drown him.

            She was alive, and she was going to do her best to ensure he wasn't. He could feel her claws sinking into his arms and the heat of her breath on his neck and he knew she was going to bite. Some part of him registered that he needed to so _something_ , and so he writhed like the wild, panicky creature he felt like becoming beneath her. It was enough to get a knee between them, and he _shoved_.

            Pain seared through him as she flexed her claws, tearing out flesh as he pried her away, managing to get his other leg between them. When he kicked with both feet, it sent her sprawling a short distance away, and her voice rose into a chilling howl of fury. The ringing in his ear ceased, and as he scrambled to his feet, he realized it wasn't ringing at all- it was voices.

            It was Stiles' voice, calling for him.

            "I can't do this!" he choked out, already throwing himself into a dead run, claws digging into the sand for purchase. "Stiles, _I can't kill her_."

            "Tell me what you want to do," Stiles said, like he was calm, even though he wasn't, even though there was no way either of them could be. Derek could hear the stress notes, could hear how tightly Stiles was strung to even ask. "I can forfeit if you can stay alive for a few more minutes."

            He swallowed the keen that rose in his throat at the idea of giving up what he had been fighting for, of giving up after claiming an innocent life. "There's nothing else?" He couldn't kill Laura. He would rather bleed out in the sands of an unfamiliar arena than lose her again.

            "You can draw it," Stiles said quickly. "But Derek, it takes three hours to draw a match. And you- _Hey! Yes, you!_ " The sound in the earpiece cut out to silence just as Derek reached the wall of the arena.

            He turned, and Laura was upon him in an instant, all snapping teeth and long, alpha claws. Her eyes gleamed brilliant red as they traded blows and blocks and he tried to kick her away again. There was no way he would survive three hours in a ring with her; he wasn't an alpha. Every mark she left would take days, even _weeks_ , to heal.

            The alpha trait was supposed to keep him in his place in the pack, but it was going to put him in a redbox.

            "Laura!" he snarled, wondering if she would respond to her name at all. "Laura, stop! It's me, it's Derek!"

            Her long teeth clamped around his wrist as he batted at her, and he could feel his skin shredding. There was a crackle in his ear and _-not the fighter I signed up for, so you'd better damn well-_ wavered through before fading. It sounded like a snarl, like a wild animal. Stiles was angry. Derek wondered if arguing with arena officials would work before she managed to kill him.

            With an apology more gulped in than spat out, he jammed a claw at the bridge of her nose, where the soft edge of her eye was, and she shrieked, releasing his wrist. She clutched at her eye, backing up a pace from him. Hunkering down slightly, she regarded him with her good eye, lips peeled back from fangs.

            Still on guard for another attack, Derek felt his stomach sink as he backed away from her. He had seen that look before. He had seen the rage, the lack of even a glimmer of recognition, of cognizant thought.

            _Feral_ , his mind whispered beneath the chatter of the crowd. They were excited. He was squaring off against his formerly-dead sister, the ache in his chest and the fear in his throat threatening to eat him alive, and they were _excited_.

            "Stiles," he said, low and even, so as to not provoke her. There was a buzz, and his name rattled out of the com. "She's feral, Stiles. She doesn't-"

            "Stay calm," Stiles ordered him. The words felt heavy and dreamlike. _Calm?_ his mind echoed. There was no calm in his world, no calm to be found in the pit. There was blood, and fear and anger and the glass-sharp scent of sand, but there was no _calm_. "Derek, are you listening?"

            A strangled noise clawed its way out of his throat as Laura pulled her hands from her face, and he could see the wounds he inflicted healing already. The punctures on his arms from her claws were still raw and oozing. He was going to die. He was going to die, and she was going to be the one to kill him, and she wouldn't even know it. She wouldn't even remember she'd done it. It wouldn't _matter_.

            "Derek!" Stiles said sharply, and the overwhelming sensation of helplessness pressing in all around him vanished like smoke. "Harris switched his fighters, okay? That's _not allowed_. I'm trying to get them to call the match in our favor because of it."

            Derek choked on the feel of ash filling up his lungs, then he turned around and began to sprint away from Laura as she regained her will to fight him. "Will it work?"

            There was a long silence, long enough for Derek to reach the other side of the arena. He vaulted up against the vertical surface, high enough to twist completely in midair and get his hands on her shoulders. Everything within him screamed not to dig in, but he flexed claws into her skin and rent flesh as he toppled them both to the ground. A ragged noise ripped from her throat as she stumbled in the shifting sand, blood spattering from fresh wounds as he scrabbled away from her again. She wouldn't be able to run on all fours with those wounds, so for a few minutes he would be faster.

            "I don't know," Stiles admitted when the com buzzed again. "The rules say I can, but I've never tried to stop a match before. Not like this."

            Insides twisting up in fear, Derek headed for the opposite side of the arena, giving himself distance from having to fight his sister. Behind him, she lumbered toward him on two legs, her partial-shift bulkier than his own. He didn't want to see her full form. She would be a _massive_ alpha, capable of shredding him to pieces.

            The memory of her smile echoed sickly in her bared fangs.

            When they reached the wall again, she turned to intercept his new course. He slowed, arms aching from the initial damage he had taken, trying to see a way around her to safety. She hurled herself at him like a creature possessed, and he caught the brunt of the forceful charge with his body. His head cracked sickeningly against the stone wall behind him and stars burst into his vision.

            "Derek!" Stiles commanded. "Stay awake, Derek. You can do this, you- _Yes, he switched them, why is that so hard to-_ " The com went dead again, or maybe his ears were ringing too much from the impact as she slammed him back against the wall again, her feral growls rumbling around in his own chest.

            She had him by the arms again, but she wasn't about to let him get a knee between them to get away, and the wall had none of the give the sand did. He scrabbled at her hold, snapping his jaws forward every time she tried to get a bite in on his neck. He knew that if she got to his jugular, the leather collar wouldn’t stop her from tearing it out.

            Already his muscles were aching with fatigue, his body throwing energy into healing the worst of his wounds rather than soothing aches. He wouldn't last long like this.

            "Laura," he groaned, head spinning, world tilting around him. There was a scent, he realized somewhere in the haze, one that wasn't blood or death or sand. It didn't belong to her, and it didn't belong to him. It wasn't ash, though it smelled like it, and as she slammed his head into the concrete again, he had enough consciousness left to be thankful it wasn't the scent of her death that clung to her skin.

            An instant later, a static-shock _zing_ of electricity coursed through him, followed by the snap-crack sound of a zap-stick making contact with her skin. Laura's howl was drowned out by his own, and she let him fall to the sands as she turned on their attackers. A charred, sickly scent blossomed around them from the electrical burn; handlers usually turned the power up for shifters, knowing they could heal.

            His vision was fuzzy but getting clearer as he watched Boyd and a handler he didn't know stand their ground against her. _Brave_ , he thought, head already beginning to clear from the pounding he had taken.

            "Get up," Boyd ordered and, though his eyes remained locked on Laura, Derek knew the order was for him.

            "Ashborn!" It was Erica's voice, and he could see her a few yards away, standing beside Isaac. Their zap-sticks were in hand, but he could tell they had no intention of using them on him. He hauled himself to his feet, and Laura whipped around on him.

            The crackle of electricity was lost in her shriek of pain. Derek snarled, getting to his feet to stop them, unwilling to let them hurt his sister again. She was mad, feral, but she was _alive_.

            "Derek," Isaac called, and the use of his real name drew him up short, reminded of where he was. Fighting the handlers was not going to save either of them right now; right now, he needed to get out of the arena and away from Laura. The handlers would get her under control, put her back in a cage, and no one would make him try to kill her.

            The com crackled to life in his ear. "Isaac, get him out of there, Erica, go with Boyd, and don't either one of you let Laura out of your sight until I come to get you."

            "Aye, boss," Boyd said immediately, his voice echoing because Derek could hear it in the com as well as aloud. Boyd stepped out of Laura's range as she feinted toward him, testing. He gave the zap-stick a sharp shake, causing it to crackle aloud. Laura's attention shifted to the weapon, considering his negotiation. "Warden privacy rights."

            "I know," Stiles said. He sounded as though he would have liked a round or two in the arena with Laura's warden. "You tell them I'm opening an investigation on their warden, and if they try to have you removed, Erica..."

            "Yeah, boss?" she said, hand warm on Derek's injured shoulder, but not grasping. Barely a touch as she and Isaac walked him to his pre-fight pen. It was for show, he knew, but he was glad for the possibility of support.

            "If you have to, taze someone," Stiles ordered. Erica let out a snort of laughter and Isaac gave her a vaguely appalled look for it. "Say it was an accident, and I'll take care of it if you have to do that, but _do not leave her._ I won't give Harris a chance to spirit her away from us. Derek?"

            "Yeah, boss?" he said, enjoying the crackle of laughter that sputtered across the com.

            "Smart-ass," Stiles said, voice brimming with amusement. "It may be a while before we can get to you. Isaac can get you to a vet if you need it."

            "I don't," Derek said at the same time Isaac said, "He does."

            "Figure it out," Stiles told them. There was a long moment of silence, during which Derek stumbled into his pen and shoved himself up against the corner of it, waving Isaac away. He didn't go far. Erica disappeared to rejoin Boyd, and Derek could see them herding Laura back to her pen. "I'm going to get this resolved, Derek."

            "I know," he said quietly, meeting Isaac's eyes. "Thank you, Stiles."

 

* * *

_Matches may be manually drawn_

_by any warden, handler, or other arena official_

_due to suspicion of foul play_

* * *

 

            Stiles managed to contain a snarl, slamming his hand down on the counter. "I don't _care_. I don't care what the damn book says," he spat.

            The woman behind the counter didn't look impressed with him, her lips pursed into a thin line and her brow drawn. He scowled right back, until she unfolded her arms and picked up a piece of paper and slid it over to him for the third time. She brushed aside the torn-up pieces of the previous two forms, and set a pen down beside the fresh paper.

            "Fill it out," she said flatly. "And I will get you-"

            This time, he did not contain the snarl of frustration. "I want to see Ellington," he demanded, low and vicious. He saw the way her jaw tightened, her throat moving as she swallowed. "So help me, you will fetch her for me, or you will not have a job tomorrow, do you understand me? Tell her Warden Stilinski needs to speak with her immediately."

            She stared at him for a long moment, and finally gave a little shake of her head. "She'll ban you from the arena." He watched her dial the phone anyway, pushing down the rage clawing around inside him.

           A moment later, she didn't _quite_ throw the phone at his head, and he pressed it to his left ear- the one without a com. "Heather?"

            "Stiles," the woman on the other end said wearily. "It's good to hear your voice."

            "Warden Harris switched-" he began.

            "I know," she said before he could launch into any sort of explanation. He could picture the way she was running her hand over her face and, for the first time in the last hour, he relaxed a little. "Danielle's been up here six times since you hit that guy in the face for not getting out of your way. Geezus, Stiles. You're a real handful, you know?"

            "He cheated, in _your_ arena," Stiles said softly. "He broke _your_ rules, in _your_ house, against _my_ fighter."

            "Your _fighter_?" she echoed. The squeak of a chair filtered through from the background. "You sure you're not in this thing with Scott too deep? You're starting to sound like them."

            He sighed, scraping his palm over his face and then rubbing it over his close-cropped hair. "My game piece, sorry," he amended. "It's not important what I call it, okay?"

            She made a noise that meant she didn't agree at all. "I put a hold on his game piece. We can keep it here for at least week before we have to turn it over to quarantine for ARC processing."

            Stiles felt the pit of his stomach sink. "That only gives me three weeks," he said, the words struggling past his tight throat. "I can't get sale paperwork pushed through-"

            " _Sale_ paperwork?" she said. It sounded like a scolding, and Stiles winced. "You want to tell me what's going on?"

            "Not particularly," he hedged, but he let out a heavy breath. Her tone left no room to get away with such a meager avoidance tactic. "The game piece I played tonight is... a project. Yes, Scott's group is involved with the project, but I'm in a contract with the ARC over it. Me, personally, I am in the contract, and it's not just a Div 2 contract- it's a side contract that I need this game piece to be alive for. I can't afford to have it going up against game pieces I didn't agree to play against."

            "And you have some sort of interest in the opposing game piece... why?" The words she asked weren't the question she wanted answered, and Stiles knew it, but he also knew that he couldn't tell her anything useful, not with the surly desk lady staring at him, and not while angry patrons were hovering around his back. There were too many ears listening in for him to get into the details with her over the phone.

            "Heather, I-"

            "Stiles!" came a voice behind him. He twisted enough to see Isaac wriggling his way through the crowd, popping out a couple of feet from him. Grabbing his shoulder, Isaac pulled him into the semi-privacy of their hunched shoulders. "You weren't answering your com."

            "I turned it off," he hissed, motioning to the phone. "What is it? Is he-"

            "He's fine," Isaac assured him, then lowered his voice so that Stiles could barely hear him. "He says that Laura smelled _off_. Like, _chemically_ off."

            Stiles' eyes widened. "Drugs?"

            Isaac gave a little, helpless shrug. "No way to tell without a blood test."

            For the first time, he felt a little twinge of hope. "Heather?" he said into the phone. She made a noise of presence. "What if I accused Harris of dosing his game piece with brood hormones?"

            "You literally cannot be serious," she said, and he could hear the exasperation. "On what grounds?"

            "One of my handlers told me the skin under its eyes was sallow," he said, raising his eyebrows at Isaac, who shrugged like he couldn't think of anything better. "You'd have to investigate, right?"

            "Yeah," she confirmed. "The ARC would have to put a hold on it in quarantine. An investigation would buy you... maybe a month if the accusation is confirmed. You tell me why you want that piece, and I'll consider not having you booted off my grounds before you can cause that much trouble."

            "You wouldn't," he said.

            "Stiles," she said. Of course she would; they both knew that.

            "Okay! That piece may be of the same bloodline as mine," he said. "I have been looking everywhere for more of that bloodline, and every time I track one down, the piece has already been destroyed."

            "Why do you need that line?" she asked. "You can't breed them unless- is that your new contract?"

            "Something like that," Stiles said.

            "I swear on everything I hold dear, if you are about to cause me a month-long fight with the ARC and the A-DEA over a breeding female, I will personally come to your house and set it on fire," she threatened.

            "I love you too," he said in mock offense. "Will you do it?"

            Though the sigh she gave was long suffering, he could tell that she was going to acquiesce. "You're a pain in my ass, Stilinski," she told him. "I'll do it, but you're gonna have to leave your piece here at least overnight too. An accusation like that requires me to draw blood and keep both pieces. I can have yours sent to quarantine tomorrow after the matches, and you know that's the best I can do."

            Stiles closed his mouth on a retort and swallowed the dread that closed off his throat at the thought of leaving Derek there alone. "I know," he said. "Thank you."

            "If you want to thank me, just go home," she said tiredly. "I will call you when they leave with your piece."

            Silently, he passed the phone back to the woman behind the desk, and looked at Isaac. "You bought us a little over a month and they're going to keep De- Ashborn overnight."

            "It could have been more of a disaster," Isaac pointed out as they slipped into the crowd, leaving the officiating area behind them.

            "I don't really see how," Stiles said. It felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to his temple, on top of everything else. He could already tell he wouldn't be getting any sleep.

            "A failure of your imagination, I'm sure," Isaac said, patting him on the shoulder. "Derek will be fine overnight, and if Harris really was using drugs, you can call for a no-buy quarantine hold until they clear her system, in the interest of purchasing her, as long as you're willing to pay feed and board."

            That stalled Stiles in his steps. He looked over at Isaac with no small amount of awe. "I had completely forgotten about that rule."

            Isaac raised both eyebrows as though to say _obviously._ "Though, you're putting a lot of faith in Derek's nose." He turned away from Stiles and continued walking. "A false accusation means they'll permanently confiscate Derek instead."

            Stiles frowned, catching up with him. Fear rattled around inside of him; he had forgotten about that rule, too.

 

* * *

_Confiscated game pieces will be held_

_for a period of up to fourteen (14) days_

_at the nearest quarantine facility_

* * *

 

            The night of the quarantine was the most miserable Derek had experienced in months. A long time after the fight ended, Stiles had come down to the pens, threading his fingers through the fencing like the first time they'd met, and told him that the arena was going to keep him overnight. The words had felt _cold_ to Derek, though Stiles said them with no small amount of distress. It wasn't an execution. It wasn't imprisonment, or abandonment.

            Stiles wasn't going to leave him there.

            Stiles would come back for him.

            "It's okay," Derek had said, reaching up to touch his fingertips to Stiles', uncertain which one of them he intended to reassure. The touch fell short as his eyes flickered to the dark red pattern on Stiles' skin, where his knuckles were split and bruised. When he looked back up, Stiles smiled wanly but didn't offer an explanation.

            Isaac and Erica had taken him to the vet clinic at the arena, where his wounds were washed and stitched, which sometimes helped with alpha-induced injuries. They had drawn his blood, and he'd listened dully as the vet explained to Stiles that they would test it within the week and the arena would call him with results. Stiles had insisted on having a second sample taken and sent to a clinic of his choosing, and Boyd had explained, as they herded him to a holding pen, that the secondary test would keep anyone from messing with the results.

            The solid metal door had slid closed behind him, locks hissing and turning, and Derek wondered exactly what sort of broken world he had stepped into when he stepped out of the Argent pens.

            He had known that what they were doing was dangerous- after all, everything in a fighter's life was dangerous. He hadn't seen much of the world outside of the pens and the arena, but though no one had ever really explained all the intricacies behind the rules of fighting, he knew there was far more going on than he could see. He just hadn't realized how deep the subterfuge could go on the human side of the world.

            The vet hadn't even _hesitated_ when Stiles asked for a second test to prevent dishonesty, and Stiles outwardly treated the exchange as commonplace, almost casual. An inconvenience. But behind the cold _rage_ he had seen in Stiles' eyes, behind the heat of every terse word he snapped at all the humans around him, Derek had felt a thread of fear woven in.

            Now, he was alone, and he could feel the same fear creeping into him. He hunkered down on the straw piled in one corner, fingers curling around the leather of his battle collar. The chill from the metal enclosure seeped into him too quickly, and he found himself thankful that shifters ran hotter than most other supers. Though he felt he had no right to do so, he missed the warmth and softness of his den at Stiles' estate. He missed hearing heartbeats; through the thick metal of this cage, he could hear almost nothing.

            Time passed, and someone eventually dumped dry biscuits into the trough along the front wall, which Derek realized was next to the lixit. It had been so long since he'd used anything but a cup to drink from that he'd almost forgotten what they looked like. Anger burned in the pit of his belly at the indignity he had once taken for granted, and he didn't bother to extinguish the feeling. Instead, he stoked it, let it keep him warm as he counted minutes and softly sung the lullaby Boyd had found for him, the one his mother used to sing to him as a child.

            At some point, exhaustion dug in claws and pulled him down into sleep. Laura chased him through his dreams, snapping at his heels with jaws that dripped with his blood. In the distance, Stiles watched, and the earpiece crackled with his distorted voice.

            "If you can't outrun one mangy she-wolf, I may as well leave you here," Stiles told him disdainfully. "Cora can take your place."

            Surrounded by jeering humans, Derek stood frozen in the arena stands, watching as Cora struggled to fend off a screaming harpy. He could smell her blood everywhere, hear her calling his name over and over.

            She lay before him on a metal table, cradled in a red, wooden box.

            The hiss of the locks startled him awake, his claws slipping out, a snarl on his lips before the door was even open. A sharp crackle of electricity brought him back to his senses, and he ducked his head until the unfamiliar handler relaxed. They were here to take him to a quarantine facility so that Stiles could pick him up, and he needed to act like the animal they thought he was until then.

            "It's okay, buddy," the handler soothed, easing into the cell. Derek eyed him warily, but the zap-stick was not in a position to strike, only to defend.

            He rose from his defensive stance, keeping his eyes down, and presented his palms to the handler placidly. It was a sign of non-aggression, with soft fingertips and muscles lax. The lead the man clipped to his collar felt heavy with more than just physical weight. He wanted to tear it off and strangle the man with it, but he resigned himself to merely following him out instead.

            The truck ride was bumpy and the quarantine facility smelled like fear and death even before they entered. The check-in was swift, the yellow paperwork already all filled out and signed so that the handlers only had to turn it over. Without even setting the papers down, the surly-looking man behind the counter passed Derek's handler another short stack of paper, these ones pink.

            "Its warden is already out front waiting," the guy said, as if the idea personally offended him. Derek thought maybe it did.

            Erica was waiting with Stiles when they reached the lobby of the building. She took the leash and Derek didn't even look at Stiles as they passed. He could feel Stiles' eyes on him, though, and he wondered how Stiles had passed the night. He wondered if there had been nightmares, if he had felt anyone's blood on his hands.

            He wondered what color Stiles' eyes would be, if he were a wolf.

            They didn't speak on the ride home. Blue sky streaked with white passed the windows, and the city slowly faded into rolling green fields around them. Erica unclipped his collar the moment they passed the city limit. Once it was gone, he realized how difficult it had felt to breathe, despite that the equipment was almost decorative. It left him feeling _drained_ , just dragging in slow breaths and letting them out like they were being pulled from him.

            It didn't feel like coming home when they thumped into the drive, or when they parked, or when Stiles shut the car off and everything shuddered into stillness. Cora met them at the front door with Isaac, but neither of them touched him.

            "You smell like the arena," Cora said quietly, passing him his metal collar.

            He wanted to press his nose into her shoulder, hear her heartbeat all around him, wipe away the memory of her shredded body in a dull red box. Instead, he dropped his gaze to the ground, and moved past her, into the relative safety of the house. It had been a long time since the stench of arena had seeped into him, and he didn't want to smell it on her.

            "Derek," Stiles said before he got too far away.

            Halting, Derek raised his head a little, fingers tightening on the metal in his hand. When Stiles gave no indication that he had anything else to add, Derek looked over his shoulder and met Stiles' gaze. He could see the apology there, the desire to make everything okay again, but he could also see they both knew how inadequate any of it would be aloud. With a sigh, he turned back around.

            "Tell me you didn't choose her." He didn't say it with any amount of malice. A vague memory of Stiles saying the other warden had switched the fighters surfaced, but Derek needed to hear Stiles say it.

            "You know I didn't," Stiles said, just as quietly. "But I could have." It was not a threat or even a reminder. It was the admission of a guilty action Stiles had never performed. "If she'd crossed my desk, I wouldn't have known better."

            He let that sit between them with everyone watching on silently, waiting. Finally he let out a breath and shook his head a little. "Your world's a real mess," he said.

            No one argued, so he left.

            This time, he didn't let the shower run out of hot water, though he did stay long enough for it to cool against his skin. The scentless soap Cora had gotten him for the solstice scrubbed the stink of the arena from his pores well enough, but he pulled a blanket from his den and curled up atop it in the opposite corner of the room just in case, and finally fell into a dreamless sleep.

 

* * *

_A Division 5 win is declared upon submission_

_by one game piece to the other in accordance with_

_the submitting game piece's species submission gestures_

* * *

 

            Stiles woke to the sound of a knock on his door. Groggily cracking one eye open, he looked at the glowing red numbers beside his bed: just past 2am. Groaning, he closed his eye again for a moment. "Come in," he called, voice scratchy.

            The door cracked, and Derek's face appeared in the shaft of moonlight falling across the door. Stiles sat up and rubbed at his sleep-sticky eyes. The soft click of the door closing echoed around the room, and then Derek was standing at the foot of Stiles' bed, statue-still.

            "You're up late," Stiles commented, then wrinkled his nose. "Or very, very early."

            "I didn't want to be alone," Derek said without inflection.

            It sounded _hollow_ to Stiles, making him immediately uneasy. He wanted to apologize, to say something that would erase the past 24 hours for Derek, but he knew there were no words that could accomplish such a feat. His lips pressed into a thin line, and he scooted over to the left side of the bed. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed back the corner of the covers, silently inviting Derek in.

            For a long moment, Derek stared dully at the obvious invitation. Stiles couldn't see a debate in his pale eyes; he was just standing there, nothing happening. For the first time ever, fear prickled Stiles' skin at the sight of the wolf. This was not the creature he had brought home from the Argent estate, not the person who boggled at silverware and smiled softly at old photographs.

            This was instability. This was the eerie feeling of empty wilderness, the spider-web sensation that crept up one's neck in the presence of an apex predator. This was the feral emptiness that accompanied fighters that had lost hold of themselves.

            "Derek," Stiles said softly. Derek blinked slowly, meeting his gaze. "You're not alone."

            The edge of the bed dipped down as Derek knelt atop it, steadier than Stiles expected. He didn't have time to say another word before Derek was upon him, strong fingers sliding under either side of Stiles' jaw, fitting their lips firmly together and swallowing up Stiles' noise of surprise.

           Desire struck down Stiles' spine like lightning, heating his skin as his hands came up, wrapping around Derek's wrists. He didn't pull, partly because he knew there would be no give, partly because he enjoyed how warm Derek's palms were against his cheek, the way his thumbs pressed against Stiles' cheekbones.

            When Derek shuffled forward, straddling Stiles' thighs, Stiles jerked back, head tapping back against the headboard. Derek didn't seem to notice, shifting one hand down to smooth over the column of Stiles' neck, fingers finding the dip of his collarbone, the hollow of his throat.

            The touch was both controlled and desperate at once, almost enough pressure to leave bruises. Stiles tried to find his voice through the way Derek nosed at his jaw, tipping Stiles' head with one strong hand so that he could set dull, human teeth to sensitive skin.

            "Derek," Stiles groaned, voice shaky. The growl that answered him burned in his blood, forcing him to clench his teeth together to keep from just giving in. "Derek, stop. Stop."

            Tension seeped into the wolf, until he held himself so tightly still that Stiles thought he might snap. "You want this."

            _Obviously_ , Stiles thought, more than a little aware of how badly they both wanted to go where this was headed. "Not like this," Stiles said gently. He softened his grip on Derek's wrist, sliding his palm over Derek's forearm to his elbow. "This isn't what you want."

            A low, throaty rumble preceded Derek rolling his hips, pulling a sharp intake of breath from Stiles. "You're wrong."

           "Your sister tried to kill you in the pit yesterday," Stiles said, unwilling to leave it unspoken. "She didn't recognize you, most likely because she's been drugged by her warden. You had to spend the night in a holding cell. You were taken to a quarantine facility."

            With every reminder, Derek's grip slackened, until his forehead rested heavily on Stiles' shoulder, his fingers loose on Stiles' skin. He sagged a little, and Stiles touched his temple to Derek's hair for a moment before pressing a kiss there instead.

            "You're under a lot of stress," he murmured. "You're going to be okay, but this isn't how to get there."

            He could feel Derek trembling, could feel the heat of tears on his shoulder, but he just kept his mouth closed. They stayed like that, pressed together, Derek slowly letting himself relax until the shaking stopped and the heat of their initial meeting had dissipated.

            "I'm sorry," he croaked, shifting to remove himself from Stiles' space.

            Stiles tightened his grip on Derek's wrist, catching him. When their eyes met, he smiled earnestly. "You don't have to go," he said, barely a breath. "You don't have to do this alone."

            Derek hesitated and Stiles let him, curbing the desire to pull again, to tug Derek into bed and coil protectively around him forever. But if they had proven anything in the last 24 hours, it was that Stiles could not protect Derek from everything. He hadn't even come close.

            After a few deep, almost panicked breaths, Derek relaxed, and allowed Stiles to pull him down to his side. With a bit of maneuvering, Stiles managed to get the blanket out from under him and fling it over them both. Derek touched fingertips to Stiles' bare ribs, but it was a question this time, rather than a demand.

            Stiles lifted his arm, and Derek wriggled into the space left behind, molding himself to Stiles' side. Letting out a deep breath, Stiles nestled back down, pulling Derek just a little closer before closing his eyes. This was better. Safer.

            He fell asleep counting Derek's heartbeats beneath his fingers, and when he opened his eyes again, morning light was slanting through the windows. Dust motes danced in the sunbeams, and he watched them sleepily for a long time before Derek finally stirred. He blinked pale, sleep-hazy eyes at Stiles, and then lifted himself up on his elbow enough to touch their lips together.

            This time, Stiles didn't protest, and Derek didn't insist.

            "Thank you," Derek whispered when he pulled back a second later. "For not..."

            "How're you feeling?" Stiles asked, instead of letting him finish.

            "Remember when that harpy almost killed me?" Derek asked, tipping his head.

            "That's not something I'm likely to forget anytime soon," Stiles told him.

            "Mm," Derek agreed, then shoved himself into a sitting position and pawed at his hair. It stuck up stiffly and at odd angles. "Well, it's kind of like that. Only, I think I'd take the harpy if I had a choice."

            "Oh, a joke," Stiles marveled, not disguising the sarcasm. "You must be feeling better." Derek gave him a dry look, and Stiles let a smile turn his lips up before sobering. "We're going to get her here, Derek."

            Derek's gaze dropped away and his hands fell onto the soft covers. "You're going to try," he amended.

            "Harris switched his fighters, and we've laid an accusation for illegal drugs on him," Stiles said, knowing Derek might not fully understand what either point meant. "Which means he at least fought Laura illegally in the first place. They can revoke his registration for that alone, and then she goes to market."

            "Or gets destroyed," Derek argued. It sounded tired, not angry.

            "I'm not going to let that happen," he said. "I put the others into a holding pattern, so I can put all of my attention into this. If she was dosed with brood drugs, there's no way they don't let me take her."

            "Brood drugs?" Derek asked, resigned. He looked up and met Stiles' gaze once more.

            "Fighters used in breeding can't fight for three to six months after a breeding or a birth," Stiles explained. "That's why most people just retire fighters to a breeding facility rather than try to keep a breeder an active fighter. And the _reason_ they aren't allowed into the pit after a breeding or a birth is because of the hormones involved."

            "Because they become vicious," Derek said.

            "Yeah," Stiles confirmed. "People first noticed it in dragons, so they started calling them brooding hormones. A few years before I started playing the games, someone put out research on it, but not just dragons. There are lots of supers who react the same way."

            "But not all of them?" Derek asked, tipping his head a little and looking up at Stiles.

            "Exactly," Stiles said with a nod. "So... since it couldn't be regulated for use in all fighters, it got regulated in general, and eventually they just outright banned it. A lot of people who had dual-purpose facilities shut down, and fighting and breeding kind of split, since breeding and fighting the same set of supers was so costly."

            "People still do it," Derek said. "I mean, if she..."

            "Oh, no, no," Stiles said quickly, flailing his hands up. "No, I'm sure she hadn't actually been bred. There are synthetic compounds that do the same thing. Harris doesn't have any breeders."

            Derek still looked uncertain, his fingers picking at one another, so Stiles just waited until the wolf heaved a sigh. "How do you _know_? You can't know."

            "Well," Stiles said slowly. "I know that he's not registered to breed privately. You have to have special permissions through the ARC in order to do that at any facility that isn't their own, and he wouldn't have been able to put her into an arena undetected if he'd removed her from one of those. So I don't _know_ , but I'd bet a lot of money to say she was just Harris' way of pulling a fast one."

            Finally, Derek relaxed a little. Stiles could still practically feel the anxiety radiating from him, but he knew there was nothing that would ease that except for having Laura safely with them. He reached out, laying one hand over Derek's to draw his attention.

            "I'm going to fix this, and bring her here," he said quietly. "But it's going to take time."

            "Okay," Derek replied. He didn't sound convinced. "I trust you." That, at least, Stiles could see was true.

            "Okay," Stiles repeated. "Before we go get breakfast, there's something I need to talk to you about, something not related to... all this."

            Derek swallowed, but just nodded for Stiles to go ahead.

            "Last night, Scott called," Stiles began, watching Derek for any sort of reaction. "He said that we can go visit the sanctuary at the end of this month, if you want. I didn't give him an answer, with all things considered."

            "I want to go," Derek said in a rush, meeting his eyes. "If we can, I'd like to go."

            Relief coursed through Stiles at the agreement. When Derek had arrived home so despondent, he'd begun to worry that Derek would refuse the offer. The sanctuary was what they were working toward, what Derek had fought so hard for, what he would have to continue fighting for, and Stiles wanted him to see what exactly it would mean. There was precious little he could give to Derek that wasn't empty words, but a visit to the sanctuary was a solid, tangible reassurance.

            Or at least, he hoped it would be.

            Each time Stiles saw Derek covered in blood and sand, each time he heard the catch in his breath as anxiety caught up with him, every time he had to sign a new game agreement, Stiles felt less and less like the sanctuary was the answer. He'd begun to expect it wasn't even an answer at all, not with the way Derek looked at him, not with the way his heart had begun faltering in its rhythm when Derek looked at him just-so.

            "I'll call him after breakfast, then, and let him know," Stiles said, burying his concerns in the graveyard of problems he was currently ignoring.

            He scooted closer to Derek, enough to nudge him out of the bed and onto his feet. Derek made a face, but clambered off, stretching as soon as he was vertical. Stiles watched with no small amount of appreciation, and then wriggled out of bed as well, snagging a shirt out of his dresser and tugging it on. A lazy day was in order, he determined. They both needed it.        

 

* * *

_Suspicion of mistreatment (including but not limited to improper_

_nutrition, housing, or handling of any kind) of any game piece,_

_inside or outside of arena grounds,_

_should be reported immediately_

* * *

 

            The car that pulled into the curved drive outside the preserve to meet them was low to the ground and a brilliant, clean shade of silver. The engine was quiet compared to the roar of the Jeep, and Derek couldn't see inside through the black-tinted side windows. Stiles shot him a reassuring smile, which he returned nervously. They had spent several hours driving to get here, and almost twenty minutes waiting for Scott and his mate to arrive to grant them access.

            "You're late," Stiles said when Scott pulled himself out of the passenger side.

            "Traffic," Scott replied, pulling Stiles into a hug in greeting.

            "We are in the middle of nowhere," Stiles chided, hugging back. "You can just tell me you were making out with Allison now that she's finally moved in. I'd believe you."

            "It was my fault," said Allison as she closed the driver's side door. "I was trying to arrange some things for Lydia's birthday party in March. Which you're coming to."

            "Am I?" Stiles said, grinning. "Oh right, how could I have forgotten the event you never told me about."

            She gave him a look that might have withered a lesser being, but his grin only widened. Instead of taking the bait, she tossed a ring of keys at his chest. They hit with a satisfying jangle, and he caught them before they could drop to the cement. A keycard stuck out from the bunch, bright yellow.

            "The village is about two miles in," she said. "Just follow the road. When you get there, find the red phone at the center, and give us a call. It's the only working phone in the place, right now, so I want to be sure you know where it is in case something happens."

            Scott pressed a sheet of paper into Stiles' hands. It had a lot of pale colors on it, and was folded into a neat rectangle. "We stocked House 3 for you two, but if you need anything else, we can probably get it for you."

            "Thank you," Stiles said. "I heard back from Heather last night."

            "Yeah, she called us, too," Scott admitted. "At least Harris isn't getting her back, right?"

            "Was there a chance of that?" Derek inquired. He didn't mean for it to sound quite as accusatory as it came out; it wasn't Scott's fault that any of it had happened, or that Laura was still out of their reach.

            When Scott turned to him, his gaze weighed on Derek like the feel of a rainstorm in the distance. "Not particularly," said Scott. "Not with Stiles working against Harris. But it's nice to know for sure."

            Stiles stepped in before Derek could say anything else. "It's not the end of it, but it's a good sign. The results came back for you both, and confirmed that she'd been dosed - most likely for a long time - with brood drugs. You hadn't. That means my claim against him was validated, and puts her in the care of the A-DEA. That move has the potential to put her within our reach."

            His heart beat quicker, despite not understanding what Stiles was saying. They'd had a few hours in the Jeep to get here, and Stiles hadn't told him any of this on the way. He wondered when he'd meant to tell him. He wondered _if_ Stiles had meant to tell him.

            Something of his confusion and worry must have shown on his face, because Stiles continued. "It's good news, Derek. It's not earth-shattering though. The A-DEA will take their time assessing her physical condition. It could be anywhere from a couple of days to a month before they release information on whether they think she will recover enough to be sold."

            Cold settled in Derek's gut as he caught the slight widening of Stiles' eyes; he obviously hadn't meant to say that. "She might not recover?"

            Allison cleared her throat, though Derek couldn't tear his eyes away from Stiles', even when she began to speak. "The problem with the particular hormones that she was given, is that they build up in the system. After a while, the body reacts in one of two ways. Either by building a tolerance to them - which some wardens used to counter by overdosing their fighters, resulting in death - or their body begins producing more of the hormones itself, resulting in an overdose, and then death. It was part of the reason the drugs were banned."

            "She might die?" The question came out strangled, eked out around the lump in his throat.

            "No," Allison said, then amended: "Probably not. The A-DEA won't be dosing her with any more drugs, which means that she'll have only what her own body produces. Generally supers can't overproduce enough of the hormones to kill themselves."

            "But?" Derek said softly. He could _hear_ the hesitation in her words.

            "But," she said, gaze skirting his when he turned to look at her finally, "they are probably holding her because she's still producing the hormones. She can't be put up for purchase until her system is clear of the hormones, and they won't hold her beyond a month."

            Derek swallowed, throat tight. He could feel burning behind his eyes, because he knew what she was telling him. Quarantine facilities only held confiscated fighters for two weeks, after which time, if the fighter had not been reclaimed by its warden, it was destroyed. If the A-DEA wasn't going to hold her for more than a month, it meant she needed to be clean before then. Otherwise, she'd be killed. He'd gotten so used to living with Stiles, amongst people who treated him as a person, too. To the rest of the world, they were still just animals of convenience.

            "I'm not going to let that happen," Stiles told him, laying a hand on his shoulder. It was too warm, too gentle; it felt dissonant with the emotions raging around inside of Derek. "There's a good chance that if they make that decision, Dr. Deaton will be able to get her relocated to my facility for an extension on rehab. That's what we had done with Deucalion, which means we have precedent."

            Raising his eyes, Derek met Stiles' gaze. There was no skip in Stiles' heartbeat, no waver in his voice. "You think that will work," he said, and Stiles nodded. Derek looked over at Scott and Allison, who both nodded as well.

            "It would be different if he hadn't done it before," Scott said. "But part of the reason my group wanted to work with Stiles specifically is because he has documented precedent for these sorts of things. We can point to a paper trail that says he's been successful doing things _differently_."

            Some of the tension within Derek loosened, and he felt like he could breathe again. These three had hope, and whether or not it was valid, it gave him hope as well. They had gotten him away from the Argents. They had gotten Cora away from her breeding facility. They could get Laura away from where she was being held, too.

            "Okay," he said quietly. He liked Allison's smile.

            An awkward sort of silence coiled around their group for a moment, until Scott coughed and shifted around. "We should get back home," he said, flashing Stiles and then Derek a smile. "You guys have until Monday morning. We'll meet you back here around 9am, and don't be late. They'll change the key card remotely, and you'll get stuck inside until someone comes to rescue you."

            "Why does it change?" Derek asked. There were no supers inside, and no reason for humans to want in, at least no reasons he could guess.

            Scott lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "They change the code every Monday," he said. "I think they used to have a problem with people sneaking in and wrecking stuff, so they put the key card security on instead of just a chain and lock."

            Stiles moved forward and shooed the other two humans toward their car. "We'll be here before nine, then," he said. "Promise. And we'll call if we need anything. And we'll be fine."

            Allison batted at his hands, and pulled him into a hug. "It's good to see you again, Stiles," she said.

            He wrapped his arms around her, tucking his nose into her shoulder for a split second. "Yeah," he said. "And happy birthday."

            She laughed as Scott made a triumphant noise from the passenger side of the vehicle. "We put cupcakes in the house to make you feel guilty," she said. "Scott bet me you'd forget."

            "Do I want to know what he won?" Stiles asked with a laugh.

            "Not remotely," Allison said with a grin. "You boys have a good vacation. See you in a few days!"

            They stood there long enough to watch Allison's car disappear down the drive and around a bend, vanishing behind a thick stand of trees. Then Stiles turned to Derek and a smile twitched the corner of his lip. It wasn't quite an apology, but Derek wasn't going to press the issue immediately. There had to be a good reason Stiles hadn't told him about all of the developments with Laura. They hadn't had much time lately, with Stiles constantly dealing with arena workings and being gone for days at a time, presumably fighting in his own way.

            They got back into the Jeep and Stiles managed to work the key card to get them through the gate. It swung shut behind them without direction, and Derek contained a flinch at the loud clack of the locking mechanism. It wasn't a pen, or a cage. It was protection, he told himself. They weren't locked in, others were locked out.

            It still _felt_ like a trap.

            The road into the village was thin, two sets of ruts keeping the Jeep's tires on course. With the windows down, all the scents of the forest whipped through the car on the breeze, all bark and earth and the musk of animals. The press of the open sky was muted here, sunlight filtering down through the branches of the trees that formed a sort of tunnel over the road.

            About a hundred yards from the village they passed a sign announcing their location. Beacon Hills. A trio of hanging numbers marked the population as zero, but Derek guessed they could be changed at any time. He wondered how long it would take to reach double digits.

            He didn't have time for wondering anything else as they entered the village. There were houses in a line on either side of the road, all small and the same. Pale, thin walkways lead to rust-colored doors set into brick faces. He couldn't focus as they drove, the buildings all blurring in memory as soon as he laid eyes on them. Conformity, as neat and concise as the pens where he'd grown up.

            Only when the path came to an end at a squat, round building, did Derek pull together the threads of his attention. This building was different than the others, a little taller and much larger. The roof was flat where the others were slanted, this one made of cement instead of shingled in coal black. Above the glass-door entrance were the words _Town Hall_.

            Just outside the door was a short metal tower, about the same height as Derek. A blue circle with what appeared to be a symbol in the shape of a phone carved out of the middle was stamped at the top, and a tiny light lit the red phone nestled behind a glass door in the tower. Stiles pulled up alongside it, but didn't get out of the car.

            Derek passed Stiles the map and watched him open it, golden-brown eyes scanning until he found the red mark Scott had left on the house, and the matching mark on the phone's location. When he looked up, Derek could see him calculating where they would have to go to get there.

            "Oh," Stiles said, pointing down one of the streets. The roads stretched out from the circular drive that surrounded the town hall, like spokes on a wheel. "There it is."

            Leaning forward, Derek followed the line of his finger. The houses down that spoke were different than the entrance row, with a patchwork of raw stone as their front instead of bricks. They were still an amalgamation of sameness, all one shape and height, but the way the stones were cut gave them slightly more personality than the brick.

            Stiles parked the Jeep in the street, as there were no garages. It made sense; supers wouldn't be able to drive, so they wouldn't need spaces to put the cars they didn't have. He unbuckled his seatbelt and got out of the car without comment.

            "Do you want to come in first, or...?" Stiles trailed off, like he wasn't quite sure what else Derek could possibly want to do.

            "You should have told me." It wasn't what he'd meant to say, but after it was out of his mouth, he couldn't take it back.

            Stiles' lips pressed into a line for a moment, and then breath puffed out of him. "I didn't want to get your hopes up, not until I had something more solid."

            "I'm not a pup," Derek said. "I'm not young, or fragile, or stupid. I'm not-" He swallowed the words _an animal_ , and tried to give a voice to what he meant. Stiles waited with only his fingers fidgeting, until Derek's brow scrunched up in frustration. "I don't need to be protected from _hope_. I need to know what is going on - the _truth_ about what is going on. Don't... don't _shut me out_ because you think I can't _handle_ something."

            "I shouldn't have kept it from you," Stiles conceded, without excuse. Something loosened in Derek's chest, and he hadn't realized how tightly he'd been strung until Stiles' words eased the feeling. "I told you before that I would communicate, and I didn't."

            The incoming apology, thick in the air between them before Stiles even opened his mouth to speak it, clawed at Derek's gut. "Don't. Don't apologize." He swallowed, giving a little shake of his head. "You'll do it again."

            He'd meant to make it an accusation, but it just sounded tired. Stiles nodded a little. He would; he would keep things from Derek if he thought it was best, and they both knew it. "I will," he agreed quietly. "You've had a lot of hurt in your lifetime, I don't like adding to it."

            "Then tell me things," Derek said. "Knowing you don't think I'm strong enough to hear anything you know hurts worse."

            "Okay," Stiles agreed. Derek wasn't sure it was the truth; Stiles' heart was racing too fast to hear if it faltered. "Then you should know that there's a good chance that even if we do bring her home, she won't be who you remember."

            "You think she's feral," Derek whispered around the way his throat constricted. It had occurred to him, of course, that she was feral. There had been no recognition in her eyes as she attempted to take his life. It could have been a result of the drugs, though. He wanted it to be a result of the drugs.

            Stiles didn't meet his gaze, scuffing one foot on the pavement. He folded his arms across his chest and leaned his hip against the Jeep's fender. "Part of the reason the drugs went unnoticed for a long time was because they were used on feral fighters. They were already feral, already harder to manage. There's no... _evidence_ , no research on it, but there's talk that the drugs sometimes caused it. _Caused_ the fighters to go feral."

            Taking a deep breath, Derek nodded. He had asked for information. He looked away from Stiles, toward the stone-faced house that would be their refuge for the next couple of days. "Will you keep her?" he asked, voice unsteady. "Even if she's feral, will you keep her?"

            "Yes," Stiles said without hesitation. Derek believed him.

            "Thank you," Derek said. He took a long, slow breath, and let it out just as carefully. Then he peeled his shirt off and set it on the hood of the Jeep. "I'm going to go running. Explore a bit."

            "I'll leave the door unlocked." Stiles didn't stay as Derek stripped out of the rest of his clothes, laying his silver collar on top of the small pile. He wouldn't need to wear it again until they left.

            His paws hit the ground to the click of the front door closing behind Stiles, and then he was running.

            The pavement felt strange beneath his paws as he bolted through the small town. He counted buildings as he passed, weaving up and down the roads. There were six roads stretching out from the center circle, seven houses long, though only three of the spokes actually had houses. The third road, the one they hadn't gone down, had houses with white, metal siding on them, and they were even duller looking than the brick ones.

            Here and there he caught the faint scent of humans, mostly unfamiliar. Scott and Allison's scents had clung to the house where he'd left Stiles, but both were absent at these others. He paused at the center circle, looking down the fourth road and wondering how many humans were allowed in here. He'd found at least six different scent trails.

            Down the fourth spoke of the village wheel, there were huge holes in the ground, and yellow equipment, and Derek realized that they were still constructing the village. He padded more carefully around the holes, panting in the scent of a dozen construction workers, the oil and gas of the machinery, the cloying scent of disturbed earth. A part of him knew that these would be basements, but the longer he looked at them, the more they looked like graves.

            He slunk past the last two basements with his tail down, the fur along his nape prickled to attention. The feeling of foreboding chased at his heels until he set foot on soft, forest ground, and hesitated.

            Behind him was the whole town, the whole point of the preserve, and he glanced over his shoulder to see it from a short distance. It was less menacing where he was, the houses just squat buildings, the roads smooth and even, and the holes in the ground only looking like shadows. There were no street lights, no mailboxes, no driveways. It wasn't a human place, he reminded himself.

            Somewhere in the cluster was Stiles' Jeep, and within one of the buildings was Stiles himself. Derek tipped his head, cocking an ear forward to hear the human's heartbeat, to hear his soft footfalls on the cement. From the sound of it, he was walking back from the phone. Derek had missed listening to the phone call.

            For just a moment longer, he stood at the threshold of the forest, torn between going back to Stiles or letting the wilderness have him for a time. He could go back. He could go inside the house, and talk to Stiles, and play human again. He could, and it would be easy. Stiles made him want to leave behind the wild part of himself, forget that there was a wolf clawing and howling inside of him, forget anything that wasn't lazy Saturday afternoons watching movies or listening to music or taste testing new foods.

            With one last look at the silent, eerily-still construction equipment, Derek turned his back on the town, and disappeared into the forest with a flick of his tail. He _was_ wild; it was a part of him, even if it was a part he had tasted only because he had allowed himself to be tamed by a soft human.

            He wasn't sure what that said about him, but he wasn't sure he liked it.

            So, he ran. He ran until he found the fence, ran along the cement and chain-link until his lungs burned with every panted breath, until his muscles ached, until there was nothing but the dead, dew-slick grass against the pads of his paws. He ran until it felt like there was nothing but adrenaline coursing through his veins, and nothing but the sound of wind in his mind. He ran until he had outdistanced the worries chasing him, and then he lost himself rolling around in a patch of dappled sunlight to recover.

           Somewhere in his exhausted dozing, his worries caught up with him again. He lay with his jaw in the winter-dry grass, and let his thoughts lap around inside his head like waves, watching with the distance he had needed and couldn't obtain earlier.

            He had known there was a chance Laura could be feral, and though he had hoped someone would tell him differently, he had already accepted that she might never come fully back to him. Stiles' words, reassuring him that he would keep her safe even if she never recovered her mind, soothed that ache to a degree. Nothing could erase it, but the thought didn't burn quite as much. She would be near him. She would be alive.

            Sunlight slanted over his face, and he closed his eyes against the brightness. He had as good as accused Stiles of lying to him about Laura. It stung, despite that he knew why Stiles had done it. No matter what he said about his own strength or bravery or ability to handle any information Stiles could possibly give to him, there was a part of him that still flinched away from being emotionally damaged. There was still a part of him that recoiled at the thought of learning anything else that would hurt him.

            Stiles was right to say that Derek had been hurt enough in his lifetime... but he was wrong to make the choice for Derek, to decide whether or not he could handle more. Derek wondered what he would have done, if their situations were reversed. He suspected he wouldn't have acted that much differently, and so he let it go.

            When he opened his eyes again, the sun had shifted and a small breeze was tickling at his dark fur. He rocked up onto his feet, stretching out first his front paws and then his back paws, relishing in the feel of the healing muscle. Tipping his head up, he looked at the branches of the trees above him, listening to their bare branches clack together. It was colder here than it was at Stiles' estate, brisk and open.

            It was nice, he thought, eyes tracking a fluffy, white cloud across the clear, blue sky. Outside of the town the sanctuary was nice. He had run alongside a huge lake, crossed a stream that cut through most of the land, found stands of pine and oak, and a pair of huge weeping willows that had obviously been planted together. To the northeast there was a long stretch of open fields with wild berries and fruit trees at the edges. There were no people scents in the forest, no humans near the lake. _This_ was the freedom he had been fighting for, not the neatly cut, symmetrical houses he had left behind him.

            Freedom wouldn't wash the blood from his hands, but it might make him forget about it for a while. It might be able to afford him an amount of peace.

            He tipped his head, but he was too far from the town to hear any sign of Stiles. He knew he should go back, even though he didn't need to; he could spend the entire two days out here, padding around in the forest, slinking through the field, learning to swim in the lake. No one would come looking for him. No one would insist he put a collar on. No one would haul him back to Stiles like a captured stray.

            Every day would be like that, he realized, if he could just make it through the divisions.

            Every day should be like that anyway, something within him whispered. It sounded a lot like Cora. He tamped it down, and turned to head back to the town, back to Stiles.

            The click of his claws on pavement echoed around the silent street as he padded toward the center circle. Stiles' scent, leather and soft soaps and clean fabric, wreathed around the phone tower as Derek passed it, and he followed it back to the stone-faced house.

            After shifting back, he pulled on his jeans in the driveway, wondering idly if the future residents would have to wear clothes. He wondered if they would want to, after living so long without them. They were nice, sometimes. Restrictive, a lot of the time. He wrapped his shirt around the thin collar, partially to keep it safe, partially to keep it hidden.

           The door was cracked just an inch or two when he got there, and he nudged it silently open with his fingertips. Inside, he could hear Stiles' soft breathing, the beat of his heart steady and even. Derek set his shoes on the wooden floor, and laid his shirt-wrapped collar atop them. He shut the door with an audible clack, to announce his presence, and listened to Stiles' heartbeat jump.

            They were alone here, Derek realized, his own heartbeat skipping. There were no siblings, no handlers, no one coming in to inspect or interrupt them.

            "Derek?" Stiles called. A chair scraped up ahead of Derek, and then Stiles was standing in the hallway, eyes tracking quickly over Derek. "Hey," he said. Derek hated the tension pulling the word taut on Stiles' tongue.

            He wanted to say that he'd meant to come back sooner, that he needed time to think, that there was a lot going on that he needed to figure out, but he just said, "Hey."

            Stiles tipped his head a little. "Are you hungry? Scott left a lot of food." He was already backing up before Derek took a step forward. "I wasn't sure when you'd be back, so I just heated up a pot pie. They don't take long, I can make one for you if-"

            "Stiles," Derek said, following him into the kitchen area. It was small, but functional; a fridge, a stove, a microwave, and enough counter space to produce meals. Derek ignored all of it in favor of seeking out the golden-brown gaze sliding away from his own. "I wasn't running away from you."

           "You could," Stiles said, the words soft, bruised. "If you cross the lake, it's all open land. They don't hunt in the north, past the border."

            Derek took a step closer and this time Stiles didn't step away. "Do you want that?" The words felt small, lost somewhere in the chasm still between them.

            Stiles' face scrunched, expression fighting whatever answer lay on the tip of his tongue. "You'd be safer." It sounded as though it left a bad taste in Stiles' mouth.

            "I'd be lonely," Derek said. At that, Stiles finally looked up and met his eyes, and Derek found he couldn't bear the weight of his gaze. "I needed a little distance, but I don't want to run away, Stiles."

            The click of Stiles' throat as he swallowed was loud to Derek. "What _do_ you want?"

            "Freedom," Derek answered, inching just a little closer. "I want a choice. I want..." There were a million things he wanted, from the sunshine in his fur to the feel of Stiles' skin, and there weren't enough words for any of it, so he just bridged the space between them, touching his fingertips to the soft skin of Stiles' wrist to keep him anchored within reach.

            "Derek..." Stiles mumbled, and though he didn't pull away, he dropped his gaze to where they touched.

            "There's a barcode on my spine that says I belong to you," Derek reminded him. Not an accusation, not harsh; it was just a fact. "But I... I don't want to be here because there's a tattoo on my skin or a collar around my neck." His fingers encircled Stiles' wrist, just enough to hold him in place, just enough to feel the race of his heart beneath the thin skin. "I want a choice."

            "Okay," Stiles breathed, gently pulling his wrist from Derek's grasp. Their eyes met, and Derek could see the trepidation in them. Stiles spread his hands a little, indicating far more than just the house around them. "Here it is. There's no collar here, Derek. If you want to go, I'll bring Cora out, and Laura when I have her. Maybe I should have done that from the start. You can make a run for it, if you want to go-"

            "I don't want to go," Derek interrupted, finally stepping into Stiles' space, tipping his head just a little, gaze snagging on Stiles'. He heard the human's heartbeat speed up and he reached over, smoothing one hand over his shoulder, fingers tightening a little around Stiles' bicep, until Stiles' breath caught in his throat. "Do you want me to leave?"

            "No." Stiles let out a shaky breath.

            When Derek brought his other hand up to cradle the line of Stiles' jaw, Stiles didn't pull away but he didn't relax, either. Derek wasn't sure whose heart was beating faster as he rested their foreheads together.

"Sometimes I wonder what it is you want. What it is," he continued, barely loud enough for Stiles to hear with only inches between them, "that makes your pulse race when you’re around me. It doesn’t smell like fear."

           "Why would it?" Stiles asked, eyes closing briefly. "You won't hurt me."

            His thumb brushed over Stiles' cheekbone. "Are you sure? I could," Derek murmured. It was a lie he was glad Stiles couldn't hear, though he suspected Stiles knew anyway. "I'm stronger than you. Faster. I've killed people. That should scare you. It scares me, sometimes."

            Finally, Stiles reached up, touching his fingertips to the soft skin of Derek's wrists, encircling them for just a second before moving to his temple, his jaw, smoothing down his bare chest like Derek might shatter if he wasn't careful. It wasn't a comfort or an advance; it felt like an apology that no amount of words could possibly make.

            "I'm not scared of what you've been forced to do," he said, voice catching. "I'm scared that you'll get hurt doing it, or that you'll end up dead from it. I'm scared it'll be my fault for walking into your pen in the first place."

            They stood there, silence coiling up tight around them, and Derek tried to grasp onto any solid thought. It wasn't Stiles' fault that any of this was happening; he had given Derek a choice. _Derek_ had made that choice. He could have said no, and part of him sometimes thought he should have; it was the part of him that woke up in the middle of the night and spent half an hour scrubbing his skin raw, trying to get the feel of viscous heart's blood from his hands.

            It was the part of him that remembered the hobgoblin's eyes as the light left them.

            It was the part of him that was scared of himself, of what he had the potential to become, if he wasn't careful.

            It was the part of him that reminded him that standing so close to Stiles, wanting all of the things he wanted from the human, was the real danger here.

            Everything from the beat of his heart to the slant of his smile to the warmth in his golden-brown eyes was as dangerous to Derek as anything he faced in the arena. Stiles, with only soft skin and sharp words for weapons, was capable of hurting Derek in ways he didn't know how to heal.

            Maybe Stiles wasn't the one who should be scared, Derek thought.

            But he didn't know how to tell Stiles any of that, or what it would accomplish if he could, so he didn't say anything. Instead, he cupped Stiles' jaw with both hands and fit their lips together carefully, giving Stiles plenty of time to stop him. There was no hesitation this time, no tension; Stiles pushed back when Derek pushed forward.

            Relief seared through Derek at the contact, the breathy noise Stiles made sending heat racing down Derek's spine. This was what he wanted, he thought as his hand dragged down Stiles' chest, slipped beneath the fabric of his shirt. The warmth of Stiles' skin under his palm, the taste of Stiles on his tongue, the knowledge that they had a choice about any of it. Past the door lay the woods, and the sunshine, the lake and the freedom to leave all of this behind; here, there was the beat of Stiles' heart against his lips as he pressed them to the hollow of Stiles' jaw, the feel of Stiles' fingers carding through his hair, and his name clawed up from Stiles' throat when he could find no other words.

            The knowledge that there was no one else around for miles, that they were fenced into a world away from the one that said this was dangerous for them both, made Derek bolder. He felt safe walking forward until Stiles' back touched the kitchen wall and he could close the space between their bodies properly, trying to say everything he needed to say without words.

            His fingers ticked over Stiles' ribs, over his hips, and Stiles made a sound Derek wanted to hear a million times. Breath rasped out of him, his forehead dropping to Stiles' shoulder as he tried to regain some semblance of control. They stayed like that for a long moment, just trying to catch their breath.

            "Not here," Stiles mumbled, pushing gently at him.

            Derek felt his belly constrict, felt desire nearly consume him even as he retracted his hands. "Okay," he slurred against the crook of Stiles' neck, lips brushing skin. Stiles had told him no before, and after their day so far, perhaps it was Stiles' turn for a little distance.

            "I mean, not in the kitchen," Stiles breathed, hands moving to cup either side of Derek's jaw, pulling him in for another kiss. When he shouldered himself away from the wall, Derek let him, let him walk them backwards toward the bedroom, fingers and lips clinging greedily to any contact they could make.

            They somehow managed to fumble open the bedroom door, and Derek pulled Stiles into the dim room beyond it, hands wrapped around his hips. Everywhere they touched felt electric, and Derek thought dizzily that he might never get enough of the sensation. When the backs of his knees met he edge of the bed, he let himself drop back onto it, pulling Stiles with him so that Stiles perched over him, a knee to either side of him.

           Without any warning, panic lanced through him, and he froze, body stiffening.

           He closed his eyes, breath catching in his throat as images of Kate, perched over him the same way, flooded in to fill the darkness. The chill of the zap-stick against his throat, the pinch of her nails on his hip. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t brace himself against the dizziness that accompanied the phantom sensations.

           Above him, Stiles halted, hands on either side of Derek's head.

           "Derek," Stiles said softly, touching his nose to the curve of Derek's jaw rather than shift his weight to use his hands. The contact called him back to the present, but only just.

           "I can't." The words scratched out of Derek's throat, past the memory of harsh leather around his wrists, over his thighs, curled tight against his ankles.

           Stiles shifted, then placed a warm hand against his cheek. "Derek," he repeated. Derek opened his eyes, vision consumed by the view of Stiles, eyes dark with want, a smile tentatively curling the corner of his lips. "It's okay. We don't have to-"

            A rough noise, almost a snarl, burst from him, cut short as he clamped his mouth shut and closed his eyes again. She wasn't here, he told himself, cheeks hot. She had no control over his life anymore; he had gotten away from her. She couldn't take this from him.

            When he opened his eyes, Stiles had settled back on his haunches, hands resting on his own thighs as he watched. Waited. Breath puffed out of Derek, and he sat up beneath Stiles, wrapping his arms around him and nuzzling into the crook of his neck. His nose filled up with the scent of Stiles, grounding him in the moment.

            No, she couldn't take this away, Derek thought as Stiles' fingers found his hair, stroking soothingly over the back of his head. They were going to be okay.

            Finally, his grip loosened and he dropped his hands to the hem of Stiles' shirt, wiggling them under and then smoothing palms up heated skin. The shirt came up with the motion and, though he gave a little huff of laughter, Stiles obediently raised his arms and allowed Derek to strip it off of him. It landed somewhere in the realm of _didn't matter_ as Derek devoured the sight of Stiles without it.

            Derek groaned, pulling Stiles forward by the hips, bucking up enough to lift them both fully on the bed before he laid back again. A delighted sound of exasperation burst out of Stiles as he caught himself on his elbows before he landed too heavily on Derek, and then they were kissing again.

            It was different than before, not desperate or careful or wary. The tension that had kept them strung taut had eased, replaced by a haze of contentedness. He could feel the curve of Stiles' smile against his lips, and he _liked_ it, he wanted to feel it more, feel it forever.

            Then Stiles' thumb brushed over his nipple and a shock bolted through Derek. He broke the kiss, head pressing back into the sturdy mattress. Stiles did it again, with more purpose this time, and Derek closed his eyes, palms finding Stiles' hips. He didn't grab, didn't even let his grip tighten, just let his hands rest there, feeling every shift Stiles made against him.

            He opened his eyes when Stiles slithered off of him, knees hitting the floor with a soft clunk. Derek propped himself up on his elbows, concerned that he had done something wrong, but was met only with Stiles' grin.

            Deft fingers pulled apart the button on his jeans, the tick of the zipper deafening over the sound of their breathing. "Up," Stiles murmured, nudging at Derek's hip.

            Bracing his feet on the edge of the bed, Derek bowed up just enough for Stiles to tug his pants down, over his thighs, past his knees, and then they joined Stiles' discarded shirt on the floor. He barely noticed the chill in the air with the heat in Stiles' eyes.

            "You okay?" Stiles asked, smoothing his hands back up over Derek's thighs, gentle and soothing.

            "Yes," Derek said, and he was surprised to find it was true. This was exactly what they had been dancing around for months, what he had been avoiding and craving, pushing aside for all the other things going on around them. He’d been so afraid to let Stiles get this close, afraid that it would break them both.

            But it wasn't.

            The skim of Stiles' hands on his skin _wasn't_ damaging; the brush of his thumbs over the cut of Derek's hip put more of him together than it took apart.

            “Very okay,” he added with a little squirm, trying to press into every touch.

            "Good," Stiles said, voice rough.

            Derek let Stiles crowd close as he rejoined him on the bed, tipped his chin up to bare his throat when Stiles nosed at the stubbly skin of his jaw. The motion was familiar, but it didn't bear the same significance now, didn't mean anything beyond the heat of the open-mouthed kisses Stiles pressed into his skin, to the crook of his neck, to his collarbone.

            When Stiles finally pulled back, a small noise of protest escaped Derek. Heat flushed his cheeks, but Stiles only smiled, eyes glittering gold in the dying sunlight. His long fingers traced a path down the center of Derek's chest, falling just short of anywhere useful. Derek lifted his hips, just a little, but Stiles' hand just splayed on his abdomen, keeping him in place.

            "If you want me to stop-" he began.

            "Don't stop," Derek interrupted, almost a growl.

            They'd _been_ stopping. They'd been keeping away, and treading carefully, and sorting themselves and each other out in a world that applied so much pressure every day that it was likely to crush them. Now they were here, and there was no one else, nothing but the two of them and the curve of Stiles' jaw as Derek reached up to touch, and the edge of his shoulder as Derek's grasp shifted, running down Stiles' arm, past his wrist.

            "Please don't stop," he said, fingertips lifting from Stiles' to release him. It was just them here. It was safe.

            Though he didn't voice any of it, Stiles seemed to understand, finally wrapping a hand around Derek. A sound of relief, involuntary, throaty, escaped them both at the contact, Derek's hips bucking up as Stiles stroked.

            "Eyes open." His breath ghosted over Derek's cock. He had gotten a lot closer than Derek had realized.

            Swallowing thickly, Derek opened his eyes, unaware of when exactly he had closed them again. He had just enough time for their gazes to meet before Stiles bent his head and licked a long, hot stripe from base to tip, tearing a strangled shout from Derek. One hand flew to cup the side of Stiles' head, though he wasn't sure what he meant to do once it was there.

            Stiles huffed a pleased laugh, clever fingers moving to circle around the base of him before he pressed his lips against the sensitive skin. "Is this ok?"

            "Yes," Derek answered, more coherent than he expected to sound. "Better- it's better. Good." There were words, a lot of words, he knew, though he couldn't seem to find any of them. Everything was urgency and heat and the feel of Stiles' tongue pressed slick against the underside of his cock as he took him into his mouth.

            Keeping one hand on Derek's hip to steady him, Stiles began to move, and Derek let his head drop back to the bed again, eyes closed. He left his fingers where they were, resting against the side of Stiles' head, following every motion, and let himself feel.

            This wasn't what he'd been expecting, not at all. Heat curled around the base of his spine, a pleasure not chased by any pain as it had always been. There were no sneered words of false praise, no taunts, no jeers- only the warmth of Stiles' mouth and hand, the amused hum he made when Derek couldn't help the twitch of his own hips, every movement Stiles made sending a tingling, electric tendril of sensation jolting through him.

            A whimper bled into his gasp only a moment later, his fingers tensing against Stiles' scalp. "Stiles, I'm gonna- you have to-"

           The words of warning stuck in his throat as Stiles sunk all the way down, throat enveloping the head of Derek's cock. Then Stiles swallowed around him, and white-hot release uncoiled within Derek. He choked on the sound of relief that bubbled up from his chest, fingers seeking Stiles' on his hip.

            Through it, Stiles stayed where he was, throat working around him until the last pulse had wrung itself from Derek's body. He gave Derek's hand a gentle squeeze as he backed off, licking swollen lips. As he cleared his throat, he covered his mouth with his free hand to hide his expression, and Derek could feel him watching. Waiting.

            Kate had done that, whenever he had done something she hadn't given him a command to do, especially on the rare occasions he'd come before she was done having her fun. Those times, she'd waited. She wanted compliance, no matter what she did, no matter how she touched him or what marks she put on his skin. She waited, and she started over if he messed up.

            "I'm sorry," Derek blurted out when Stiles' eyes met his, but Stiles only burst into laughter, and something within Derek relaxed. He wasn't in trouble. Stiles wasn't going to hurt him.

            "Sorry?" Stiles asked, sitting back on his haunches and grinning. The evening light from the window across the room crafted a bluish halo around him. "Derek, there's nothing to be sorry for- that was awesome. You- you were beautiful." He splayed his hands along the jut of Derek's hips, sliding them up over his waist, along his ribs as Stiles leaned forward.

            For once, Derek didn't try to ignore the flutter of warmth that tickled in his belly when Stiles brushed their noses together.

            Derek could taste the murmur of confession when Stiles spoke. "You're always beautiful. Fierce and strong and wild. Gentle every chance you get. It's wonderful. _You're_ wonderful, Derek."

            Anything Derek might have said in return was lost to the feel of Stiles' lips on his, so he just closed his eyes and let himself enjoy the moment.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra thank yous to [Elin](http://firecracker452.tumblr.com) and [Broodingsoul](http://http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/broodingsoul) for their fantastic beta work. Especially thank you to Elin for sitting with me for hourrrrrrs planning this stuff out and continuity checking and leaving me 8 million edits and patiently sitting with me as I fix things.

 

* * *

_Division 2 wardens must be age_

_eighteen (18) or older._

* * *

 

            Golden morning light suffused the bedroom when Stiles finally opened bleary eyes. His mouth felt like cotton balls and his head was pounding, but Derek was curled up asleep in the crook of his arm and Stiles was completely unwilling to disturb him to attempt to remedy either problem. It was worth it, to stay a little longer where he could feel Derek's soft exhales tickling over his bare chest, to feel the weight of him, feel him safe and alive.

            Stiles closed his eyes again, content to drift back to sleep for a little longer, but Derek stirred. "Oh," Derek slurred, still a little hazy with sleep as he started to sit. "I'm sorry."

            A laugh bubbled up within Stiles, and he pulled Derek down into a hug, nosing gently at his temple. "Good morning to you, too," he said.

            "I fell asleep," Derek said, the words sounding lost somewhere between declaration and confusion.

            "I'm not surprised," Stiles commented with a stifled yawn. It had been a long night, long enough for them to see the other side of it when they finally abandoned the shower. "Though I'll admit I didn't know your healing worked on refractory periods. That was a surprise."

            "I don't know what that means," Derek said, making a face as Stiles' yawn became contagious.

            "It means you're even more amazing than I already thought you were," Stiles told him, releasing him so that he could slip from the bed. "I'm going to take a shower, and then breakfast?"

            Derek stretched out across the bed on his back, bare skin pristine in the soft light, fingertips brushing the headboard. Appreciation tingled through Stiles. "Okay," Derek rumbled, looking over with half-hooded eyes.

            For just a second, Stiles was torn between taking a shower or rejoining Derek on the bed, but he wasn't a werewolf, and so his aching muscles won out in the end. At least one of them didn't have to deal with morning-after soreness, he thought as he snatched up his towel from where it had been haphazardly flung before they crashed. It was still damp, but he didn't figure it would matter much.

            Graciously, Derek let him soak in the piping hot spray for almost three full minutes before he cleared his throat in the doorway. Stiles smiled, and tugged open the edge of the curtain in silent invitation. He kept his face upturned in the gloriously warm water as Derek stepped into the tub behind him.

            "Hey," he greeted, smiling when Derek's fingertips touched the water-slick skin of his back with reverence, tracking slowly down the curve of his spine. When Derek's nose touched the nape of his neck, Stiles tipped his head and let it rest on Derek's shoulder.

            "I didn't mean to interrupt," Derek murmured against the side of his throat, lips warm. Briefly, Stiles considered calling bullshit, but the slide of Derek's hands over his hips and onto his belly caused him to reconsider.

            "I don't mind," he said, voice gone rough from something other than sleep. He laid his hands over Derek's and pressed back against his chest when Derek hooked his chin over his shoulder to see.

            "It's okay?" Derek asked, then amended: "It's still okay?"

            "Yes," Stiles answered immediately, breath hitching as Derek's hands inched lower. "It's okay here, in the preserve."

            "And outside?" Derek questioned. "Once we leave?"

            _Once we leave_ , Stiles' mind echoed.

            Once they were back in the real world, once there were people to see them, once there were rules again. The implication was clear, even if he didn't say it aloud. Stiles let his fingers trail up Derek's forearm as the wolf reached lower to wrap one hand around him. Maybe if he just didn't answer, he wouldn't have to think about the outside world.

            Outside the preserve, everything would be more difficult, though he didn't want to say so aloud. Outside, he wasn't supposed to touch Derek, or let Derek touch him like this, loose-fisted and gentle. Outside, everything they were working toward could be invalidated by one misplaced mark like the one Derek had left on his collarbone last night, like the dozens that were missing from Derek's skin this morning.

            Outside, if anyone found out about them, it would cost them. It would cost them all the progress they had made toward their goal. It would cost Stiles his reputation, his fighters, and his place in the arena system. It would very likely cost Derek his life.

            Some part of Stiles cared, or knew that he should care, and he thought that might be the same thing. He wanted to keep Derek safe. He wanted to make sure that Scott was safe, that his group succeeded in freeing however many supernatural creatures from the arena as they could.

           But he also wanted _this_. He wanted the warmth of Derek's breath ghosting past his ear, the tentative way he touched, the comfort of his heartbeat under Stiles' fingers as they fell asleep together. He wanted to see Derek smile, wanted to see Derek with his head tipped back in ecstasy, voice caught in his throat. He wanted all of it, had wanted all of it for a while now, so desperately that thinking of anything beyond the moment they were in made him feel like he was tapping at the wrong Jenga piece in an already unstable tower.

            "Don't worry about it," he breathed out, lifting his hips into Derek's fist and tightening his grasp on Derek's other arm. "We'll burn that bridge when we get there."

            "You're so strange sometimes," Derek mumbled against his shoulder, and Stiles just laughed.

 

* * *

  _Any warden, handler, or arena official/staff_

_found guilty of mistreatment of any game piece_

_shall be permanently banned from arena games_

* * *

 

            Derek watched the pair of cars rolling down the long drive until they had pulled up beside the other group of cars on the front lawn. When they'd finally exited the preserve, Allison had been waiting for them alone, saying that Scott got called out of the state for business. She had also broken it to Stiles that Lydia's birthday party was at his house, and that she would be visiting in March to set up for it a day early.

            Though Stiles wrinkled his nose at the proposition, he'd told Allison it was fine. On the ride home, Derek had screwed up enough courage to ask if it was really fine, and Stiles had given a long-suffering sigh and told him it was. He just didn't like having a lot of people over on short notice, because that meant making sure all the supers behaved like arena game pieces and not civilized people.

            Derek traced fingers over the warm metal of his collar as he watched the last of the humans disembark from the cars. The window was cracked open just enough for him to hear them shouting greetings to the others that were meeting them by the front door. Isaac was taking coats and shoes, and Erica was leading people toward the big front room where they had all celebrated the solstice like a family.

            Since they had returned to the house, things had mostly gone back to normal. None of the handlers seemed to notice a difference in Derek's behavior, although Cora had avoided him for two full days before cornering him in the library.

            "You smell like him," she'd said, more accusation than anything.

            "I smell like a lot of people," Derek had replied, heart thrumming too fast. He'd known what she meant and she knew he was avoiding the answer.

            "You told me not to trust them," she'd said hotly. "You told me it can't go anywhere with them, that they'll always hurt us, even if they don't want to."

            "They will," Derek had told her blandly, for all the meaning the statement held. He'd laid his hands on her shoulders, meeting her eyes. "They will," he repeated. She'd let him leave without another word, and they hadn't spoken of it since.

            A part of Derek knew that Stiles would not purposefully hurt him, or any of them. He wasn't like Kate, out to cause pain just to see it twist someone up, but that didn't mean he couldn't do damage. He had wormed his way into the softest parts of Derek and, in doing so, had exposed the softest parts of himself.

            Everything hurt worse there. The click of the collar around his neck. The hum of the engine as they had traveled to Derek's last match. The slick, blue blood on his hands as he watched the light leave the nymph's eyes, and the static of Stiles' voice in his ear telling him that he was one step closer to being free. The yawning cavern of emptiness inside of him every time he remembered that being free meant being alone.

            It meant giving up Stiles.

            He sighed and put his chin on the wrapped present under his hands on the windowsill. He didn't want to lose Stiles. He didn't want to go away- not anymore.

            From down below, he heard Stiles call his name, and he pushed himself gently away from the windowsill. He tucked the present against his chest like some kind of shield, and slipped out of the guest room, padding silently down the stairs toward the bulk of the party. Boyd met him partway, though he offered no greeting as they walked side by side.

            Conversation stuttered when they entered the room, and several people turned to look his way. Several more were very purposefully not looking at him in a way that tingled at his senses as completely unnatural. Suddenly self-conscious, he let Boyd get a step in front of him, and ducked his head a little. He was a wolf in a room full of deadly humans and even though Stiles had assured him that they were all safe, it felt uncomfortable.

            They may have been told he was more than just an animal, but their eyes were no different than any of the arena-goers. He was used to the way gazes slipped over him, dismissing him as a creature they couldn't interact with. Even the open stares were familiar, turned his way as humans sized up his price or his fitness or his care.

            "Derek!" Stiles exclaimed, startling Derek out of his thoughts as he rounded a small group of smartly-dressed women to meet him. Derek was hyper-aware of the hand Stiles laid on his shoulder; too casual, too close. "Oh good, you brought it."

            _It_ was the present in his hands, which Stiles made no move to take. Derek guessed he was supposed to give it to Lydia himself. He had asked Stiles to help him find something for her, both because he didn't want to be left out like he had been on the solstice and because he felt he owed her at least a thank you. Without her help getting around Kate, Derek would still be in the Argent pens.

            As if summoned, Lydia appeared in front of them, or maybe they had moved to her instead- Derek wasn't sure. He was having trouble focusing past the sheer number of people crammed into the front room, all of them aware now that Derek was - at the very least - treated as human by Stiles.

            "Ashborn," Lydia greeted, though she didn't sound particularly surprised. He looked at her with wide eyes, and she gave a little laugh. "I'm not here to take you back," she assured him, glancing at Stiles as well.

            "His name is Derek," Stiles said. "I was going to put his present with the others, but I think he wanted to give it to you personally."

            Though her brow crinkled at that, she smiled a little at Derek. He felt like a little kid being humored by the adults when she smiled like that. "Maybe we should scoot someplace more quiet?"

            "Okay," he said, voice scratching out. He cleared his throat, and then nodded, loosening his death grip on the gift. "That sounds good."

            She threw a slightly impressed look at Stiles, and Derek knew that she hadn't expected him to be articulate, regardless of anything Stiles may or may not have told her. Judging by the looks he'd received upon arrival, he didn't have to wonder if the others at the party believed the same. It was one thing to hear someone tell you supernatural creatures can speak, and another entirely to witness them behaving as human.

            The thought burned in his blood, and he straightened his stance, unwilling to let anyone see him as anything less than human. "Since there's no food in the actual dining room yet, it's probably empty," he suggested. "It's just over there."

            Lydia followed his pointed finger to the door just off the main room, and then smiled again. "Okay," she said, a little too brightly.

            "I don't bite," he told her as they began to move for the dining room. She glanced over, and he smiled a little. "You don't have to be afraid of me."

            "I'm not afraid of you," she said, her heart jumping in betrayal. She rolled her eyes when he only raised his eyebrows. "I'm not afraid of _you_ ," she repeated, pushing open the door and letting him precede her. "I'm afraid of what you _mean_. For everyone."

            Instead of asking what that implied, he held out the gift to her, only letting go when he was sure she had it. She side-stepped to the table and set down her drink, then turned the package over to get at the seam of the wrapping paper. Derek liked the noise it made when it tore. Her expression opened considerably when she turned the item over to look at the front cover.

            "You like math," he explained quietly, not sure she would understand why he had gotten her this particular book..

            She looked up, eyes meeting his. There was no wariness in them now, just thoughtfulness. "Stiles told you that?"

            "You told me that," Derek said. "The night they brought me into the Argent estate, and you came down to see the new arrival, you said, 'Well aren't you an expensive little shit. You're lucky I like math enough to help my mom redo all the budgets just to let Kate keep you, pup.' I didn't understand what you meant. I thought you hated me."

            "You actually remember that?" she breathed, face crinkled in a way Derek had never seen. "That was sixteen years ago."

            Derek gave a little shrug. "You made an impression," he said. "I asked Stiles if you still liked math, and he said your whole job was basically math now. Then, he said that when you were young, you liked music, because you could translate math into music, and then other people liked it, too. He helped me find that book."

            "You are both-" she began, then just shook her head and looked down at the book. It was larger than standard books, filled with pictures and charts. There were long, complex equations that filled several pages each and sheet music for three different songs that had been translated from them. She flipped through the pages, eyes tracing over all of them quickly. "Thank you. This is probably the most thoughtful gift anyone will bring tonight."

            Still a little uncertain, Derek reached out and laid his hands over hers on the edges of the book, until she looked him in the eyes. "Thank you, Lydia Martin. No matter what else happens in my life, it was through your grace that I was granted freedom from the Argents. I don't know all of the circumstances, but I do know that Kate was unwilling to let go of me, and that you kept her unaware of the exchange, and that means you probably got into trouble. I wish I could have taken that from you; it would have been a better show of gratitude."

            "I think," she said slowly, "that you have quite enough trouble of your own. You owe me nothing, pup."

            He nodded, and released her hands. Only after she smiled and turned away did he realize that she hadn't tensed when he'd taken hold of her. She really wasn't afraid of him. He smiled, though she couldn't see, and called, "Happy birthday," just before the door swung closed behind her.

            For a few minutes Derek stood in the relative quiet of the dining room, listening to the comfortable chatter of humans in the main room. He picked out Isaac's voice, explaining something technical about chimera to one of the guests, and Erica talking to Boyd near the table of finger foods Derek had seen while passing through. Then he caught Stiles' voice, though it wasn't with the rest of the party.

            " _Look, it's not a big deal, okay?_ " The words were hissed, private, and Derek almost stopped listening until he caught Scott's reply.

            " _It'll_ be _a big deal if you get caught. You_ reek _of him, and he's no better._ "

            Derek could practically feel Stiles' eyes roll in the pause. " _Yeah, and all the warden werewolves and handler werewolves and all those werewolves on the ARC will certainly sniff me out like you did._ "

            " _I just don't want you to get in trouble,_ " Scott replied. " _They don't have to sniff you out to learn what's going on. If anyone here says a damn word, you're done, Stiles. They take your fighters, they take your licenses, and they take Derek, too. They'll kill him. You fuck up even a little, and they'll take everything you have and smear your name so badly that if you don't get arrested - which you probably will, may I remind you - then you'll wish you had been._ "

            " _They aren't going to find out,_ " Stiles told him firmly. Derek heard the brush of fingers on cloth.

            " _It's not just your ass on the line,_ " Scott said with a little huff. " _It's my team. It's me and Allison. It's Jack, and it's Jo. Don't put them in danger for this. What you're doing... it can't last. Even if he succeeds, he's gone._ "

            " _I know,_ " Stiles said. " _I know that._ "

            Scott sighed, and Derek let out his breath, chest tight. He listened for just a moment longer, a little dizzy with the confirmation. Ever since he had realized what he wanted from Stiles, since he had realized what Stiles would never take from him or make him give, he had known Stiles would get into trouble. He had guessed a fine, a suspension maybe; Kate certainly hadn't seemed concerned enough with the consequences to stop.

            In the other room, the door clicked shut, and Derek wondered which one of the two had left. He could still hear one heartbeat in the side room. Whomever it was, Derek had something to say, and so he gathered himself and pushed through the door between their rooms.

            Scott was standing in the room, his phone in his hands, fingers tapping on buttons. He glanced up when Derek entered, and then back down with a sigh.

            "I assume you heard that," Scott said with resignation. He didn't appear to be as concerned as Derek had expected.

            "Yes," Derek said. He saw no reason to lie about it. Stiles might not remember how good werewolf hearing was, but Scott would. "Is it true? Will all of that really happen?"

            "If you get caught?" Scott asked. "Yeah. The ARC is already sniffing around his records. They're spotless, or my people wouldn't have taken my suggestion and hired him. But they'd kill to get their hands on information confirming that Stiles is having sexual relations with a super. They'd discredit Stiles, discredit my organization for working with him, and discredit all of the work we've done."

            "Is it really so bad?" Derek murmured, guilt gnawing at his insides. "What we've done?"

            "No," Scott replied, shoulders dropping a little. The sympathy in his tone rankled Derek, but he kept quiet as Scott continued. "In a perfect world, or even just a different world, no. You should be able to be with him, no strings attached, no hoops to jump through, no-" his nose wrinkled in distaste, "-no _punishments_."

            "But it's not a perfect world," Derek concluded, and Scott nodded.

            Sighing, Scott pocketed his phone and ran his fingers through his hair, before shooting a guilty look at Derek. "I don't blame you, man. Stiles is... anyway, I get it. And I'm sure he didn't tell you what would happen, and I'm sure no one else would, but now you know. It's not just you and Stiles."

            Thoughts of Cora and now Laura coiled around inside his head, and Derek nodded. "It was never just me and Stiles."

            A smile twitched at the corner of Scott's lips, though it faded just as quickly. "You probably don't want to hear this, but if you've got any choice in the matter, maybe you should use it to tell Stiles no. For everyone's good. At least until this ends, one way or another."

            _Until I'm out or dead_ , Derek added silently, but he just nodded again.

            Scott looked him over once, and then forced a smile. "I should get back."

            One last time, Derek nodded, and watched him leave without a word.

          

* * *

_The victorious warden_

_in a Division 2 match_

_shall receive from the ARC_

_a sum of $1500_

* * *

 

            The last person Stiles expected to see when he opened his front door was Danny, because Danny never, ever visited the manor without advance notification twice over. Even then, he usually only visited when Stiles was unable to make it out to his office. He would carry a briefcase with a few dossiers, and he was usually in a good mood. A fantastic mood. His arrival usually meant that he had found an opponent that he couldn't wait to tell Stiles about, or one that required a time-sensitive response.

            That was not the Danny that Stiles was faced with now. This Danny had a stack of binders and scowl and he didn't wait for Stiles to invite him in, he just brushed past him and headed for the dining room, leaving Stiles to trail after him.

            "Hello to you, too," Stiles called after him, shutting and locking the front door.

            Danny didn't respond, or if he did, Stiles was too far to hear. Stiles padded after him, wondering if anyone else would join them after hearing the doorbell. The handlers were all out in the barn, though he thought that Cora and Derek were up reading in Derek's room again.

            When he reached the dining room, he watched Danny dumping the binders onto the table and pulling folders from the briefcase that was normally so sparsely filled. Stiles' eyes widened as he recognized the forms, and all of the black marking on them. Documentation. Danny had been doing his homework.

            "You're in over your head," Danny said without preamble.

            "I assume this is about what I asked you to look into?" Stiles said, sidling over to the edge of the table and running his fingers over one of the papers. The top read _Talia Hale_ in a font that looked ancient and meant business.

            "Big time," Danny said gravely. "The more I looked into that fire, the deeper down the rabbit hole I ended up. Someone was trying to cover up something big, starting with little things, like Derek's missing records."

            "Did you find them?" Stiles asked, perking up at the prospect.

            "Nope," Danny said with a little shake of his head. He pulled a thin binder from beneath a larger one, and tossed it onto the papers in front of Stiles. "But I did find sales records for Laura, and for an uncle by the name of Peter- he's dead, by the way. Dead-dead, not fake paperwork dead. And look at the sale dates."

            Stiles moved his eyes from the black marks up to the sale date at the top of the paper, beside Laura's name. "Okay?" he said, glancing up to Danny.

            Danny blinked in such a fashion as to suggest he should win an award for patience, and then passed Stiles another binder, this one thicker. "Everything I could find about the fire is in there. Now look at this date." He poked at a number partway down the page- the date of the fire. "It should be familiar."

            "Oh," Stiles breathed out. The sale date on Laura's papers was only a day before the fire. His brow wrinkled. It took three days for an approved sale to process. "She should have been at the Hale facility for two days past this."

            "Yep," Danny agreed. "She would have been burned up with everyone else. In fact, if you turn to page sixteen, that's exactly what happened to her on paper. Game piece 34.921.6 - Laura out of HPBF. Deceased."

            "Cause of death: accidental," Stiles read from the next line. He shook his head. If a game piece was killed or died before a sale was completed, the sale records got stamped as cancellations and filed away in the bloodlines repository. When it was possible, DNA samples and photos were included in the file. The papers in Stiles' hand were completed, stating that the piece had been transferred successfully, although the important details were solid black marks.

            It all reeked of a cover up, just like Danny had suggested.

            "Okay, I'll bite," he said at last. "Where does her trail pick up after the fire?"

            "That's where it starts to get weird," Danny told him, turning a page in Laura's binder. The new page was a second set of sale papers, these ones more recent. "Harris bought her about six years ago from a warden in South Dakota. The same warden that had started to purchase her before the fire," he pointed out, tapping at a name on the lower half of the paper, in the seller's information area. "Warden J. Davis."

            "So the timelines don't match up. This guy, Davis, he finalizes the paperwork on the fifteenth, the fire is on the sixteenth - two days before he should have been able to take her - and ten years later he sells her to Harris. This year, she shows up in my pit, hopped up on illegal drugs, across from her brother after an illegal switch."

            "A switch that would have required barcode hijacking," Danny added quietly.

            Stiles looked up again. Barcode hijacking was, at the very least, illegal. It required a lot of skill not to get caught, and wasn't usually worth it for something as trivial as a Division 2 fight between two werewolves. On rare occasion, people hijacked barcodes if a game piece died right before a match and the warden didn't want to back out, but the investigation so far had proven that Harris still had the fighter Stiles had originally chosen.

            "Where's her paper trail?" he asked. "He had her for ten years, she had to fight somewhere."

            Danny shook his head a little, and Stiles frowned. There was always a paper trail. Wardens were required to play their pieces in a percentage of games per year, even in the lowest Divisions, and every fight was supposed to have a record, even if it was blacked out.

            "I don't know if they somehow got purged, or if I just haven't found them yet, or if the guy who bought her was using a different barcode, or if he actually didn't fight her," Danny admitted. "If she was dead on paper, it's entirely possibly she didn't see an arena until Harris took her. I'll keep looking, but as far as I can tell, Laura and her warden dropped off the face of the planet, and appeared again six years ago."

            "Kind of like Derek," Stiles commented. "Records just completely missing."

            "Actually... that's not _entirely_ true." Danny took a deep breath and flipped a few pages into the binder about the fire. "I found a few records that mention him. This one in particular may be of interest to you.

            Stiles brushed Danny's hand away from the page and skimmed over the information. It was a witness account from one of the handlers at the Hale facility, who said he had gone back in to get the younger game pieces out of the nursery, which was located close to the outside of the building. He mentioned four of them by name; Stiles' eyes catch on Cora and on Derek.

            "He says that Derek broke away from him and headed toward the on-site quarantine, which is were the fire supposedly began," Danny said. "The handler had to get the other three out, so he didn't go after Derek."

            "He was looking for his mom," Stiles said. Since the party, Derek had been making himself scarce, but Stiles had managed to talk to him in bits and pieces about the investigation surrounding Laura, and about his own memories of the fire. Whatever was going on with Derek regarding Laura, Stiles needed to know if there was any information that could help them.

            "The handler later says he never saw Derek again, which is unsurprising," Danny continued. "He was granted ownership of Cora after a brief exchange of paperwork, as the head of the facility had perished in the fire. Her barcode information was changed, but through an error I suspect was not entirely natural, the change was recorded as a new piece, not an ownership transfer."

            "More barcode issues," Stiles mused under his breath. "More missing records."

            "The same barcode issues happened with Derek," Danny agreed. "Even though the people that found him had found him without a collar, they should have been able to scan his barcode and figure out who he was. But there's no record of him before the fire-"

            "Which means someone had to have wiped it before the fire," Stiles concluded, trying to fit together the pieces. The picture that was emerging left a cold pit of fear in his belly. "Someone knew this was going to happen."

            "Exactly. And if that wasn't enough, check this out," Danny said, pulling out a third binder and opening it for Stiles to view. _Hale Private Breeding Facility_ was scrawled across the top in fancy script, with a picture of what Stiles assumed was the facility before the fire. "The Hale facility was a private breeder facility."

            "The ARC has a few private facilities," Stiles reminded him. While most of the breeding facilities were public-accessible in almost every sense of the word, the committee kept a number of private breeding sites for some of their more sensitive, rare, or dangerous creatures.

            "No, like, _actually_ private," Danny said, stressing the significance with a look. "It wasn't attached or working under the ARC. They had no control over it."

            Stiles scoffed. "That's impossible," he reminded Danny. "Wardens can only temporarily house potential breeders- it's illegal to breed supers on-site outside of the ARC facilities."

            "Yeah, it's illegal _now_ ," Danny said, then gave a tap to the top of the binder. "But it wasn't illegal then. It wasn't common, but it wasn't illegal, and those people were doing it. In fact, they were one of the last people who were doing it, before the ban."

            Looking back down at the binder, Stiles flipped through a few of the pages, scanning the photos and printed information. If it hadn't been illegal, and if they were already going out of phase... "Why did they stop? I mean, obviously this particular place burned down, but why did they ban the others?"

            "That's why I'm here, Stiles," Danny told him, meeting his gaze. "The ARC used this incident as evidence in a court case against the other private breeding facilities. I looked into it, and everything seems to point directly at the ARC _purposely_ setting fire to the Hale facility in order to further their case."

            "Danny..." Stiles began.

            Danny held up his hands and began ticking off reasons on his fingers. "First, someone put a lot of effort into getting rid of Talia's records, and messing up Laura's. Then no one can determine the cause of the fire. Then records of the fighters at the facility were all wiped _before_ the fire, meaning that, in court, they were able to say that facility hadn't kept proper documentation, and now all those unaccounted for and dangerous creatures were running free and might hurt someone. That's how they won that case and put private breeding under their regulation."

            "I really don't think that they would resort to _arson_ just to-" Stiles tried again.

            "I do," Danny interrupted. "I absolutely think that they would resort to arson if they needed something done. Who's going to investigate them?"

            Stiles sighed, and took his hands away from the binders. He spread his fingers over them without touching, motioning to encompass all of the information Danny had brought him. "I need to look at all of this," he said. "I need-"

            "You can't take that fighter in," Danny said vehemently. "You take her in, that's one too many coincidences, and you become a target. You've already got two out of three of the survivors. I'm good, but I'm sure I set off red flags getting my paws on some of this information, which means it's going to lead back to you in the end. I told you that you're in over your head, and I meant it."

            "Well it's too late to back out now," Stiles returned hotly.

            He didn't mean to snap, but he felt cornered. Even if he gave up now, even if he turned around and stopped pushing to get Laura, signed Derek and Cora up for Division 3 fights, and called off his contract regarding the sanctuary, he doubted he would be safe. With the information Danny had uncovered, with the snooping he had asked Scott to do, and with his own plucking of documents from anywhere he could reach, he may as well have tattooed a bulls-eye on his back.

            He sighed, and placed his hands gently on the edge of the table, unable to look Danny in the eyes. "Look, I appreciate what you've done, finding all of this for me, but if you need to get out, now's your chance. I know you're good enough to lead the trail to someone else, so you can lead it directly to me. I can find someone to schedule games, or I dunno, do it myself, and-"

            "I'm not leaving," Danny said, exasperated. When Stiles looked up, he rolled his eyes. "I'd already decided that if I couldn't talk you out of it, I wouldn't leave either. You're doing the right thing, which unfortunately means you're probably going to piss a lot of people off, which means you're going to need help. And... there's no better help than me."

            For a moment, it was all Stiles could do to stand there and stare, his mouth slightly open. He had begun to expect, after all the warnings, that Danny had come to tell him he was done. That he was leaving. The next month or so wouldn't have been that bad; they had already determined the holding pattern for the wolves, and the next matches for his Division 1 fighters were set. After that-

            He blinked.

            "You're not leaving?" Stiles blurted out.

            At that, Danny laughed. "Isn't that what I just said?" He sighed, and then shook his head a little. "I think you're an idiot for insisting on going forward with this, but... I think it would be worse if you didn't."

            "They might come for you, too, you know," Stiles told him softly. "Might wipe all our records like we never existed, either. Or worse."

            Danny just shrugged. "I'm knee-deep in it already," he said. "If they catch you, it's only a matter of time before they catch me, even if I bolt now. Besides... if I stay, maybe-" He swallowed, and cleared his throat. "Maybe I can clear up some other unfinished business while we're digging. So, I'm staying."

            Nodding, Stiles reached over and laid a hand on Danny's shoulder. "Well, then... welcome aboard."

           

* * *

_Any match which reaches_

_the three-hour limit_

_shall be considered a draw_

* * *

 

            Even locked in his bedroom with a pillow over his head, Derek could hear her piercing shrieks. The barn was a quarter mile away from the house but _furious_ and _loud_ didn't begin to describe the creature they were unloading from the back of the transport. Stiles had asked him if he wanted to be present when they brought his sister home, and now he was glad that he'd said no. He pressed his palms uselessly over his ears and closed his eyes.

            She would kill them, if she got a chance, but he knew they wouldn't give her that chance.

            Three days ago, Stiles had tentatively knocked on his door to tell him that the transfer of ownership had been approved. Laura would be arriving in three days, four at the most. They intended to put her into the empty humanoid pen, next to Deucalion and across from the twins.

            "Won't she tear it apart?" Derek had asked from where he sat on the edge of his bed. "The interior housing, I mean." They both knew she wouldn't get through the outer bars; not even Negira got through those.

            Stiles remained in the doorway, respecting the distance Derek had put between them since he had spoken to Scott. As much as Derek hated the bitter tang of uncertainty and unhappiness that rankled Stiles' scent, the other wolf had been right. However, neither he nor Stiles had brought it up yet, and Derek had decided to see if Stiles actually would tell him or not.

            "It's just decoration," Stiles told him. "If she destroys it, we'll put in something sturdier, or replace it. Depending on how she's recovering."

            Something sharp tugged inside of Derek. Stiles said it so _plainly_ , like there was no other option, like he was certain that Laura would recover. It had been almost four months since he saw her in the pit, and even without another dose of the drugs, she was still wild, feral. Allison had said that a super's body might begin to produce the drug on its own, but she'd never said for how long. She'd never said if it would stop.

            He pulled the pillow off of his head and rolled out of bed. Without thinking, he began to peel off his clothes, piece by piece, until all of his skin was exposed to the warm spring air. The collar went last, traded for the thin nylon collar he wore for full moon runs. It hung loose around his neck, the tags with Stiles' name and information touching his sternum.

            For just a second, he listened for heartbeats, but everyone else in the manor was outside with the new arrival. Without a sound, he opened his bedroom door and padded down the hallway toward the stairwell. There was a door at the bottom and as soon as he had it open, he was transformed, fur coating him like armor against what he meant to see for himself.

            The run across the expanse of land between the manor and the barn took only seconds, and then he was rounding the corner of the transport vehicle. He could hear shouting beneath Laura's howls, and he followed them to one of the side entrances of the barn. It was smaller than the main entrance, used only by the humans usually. There were coves built into the sides of the hall, with automatic shielded doors to keep humans safe should any of the supers escape their cages.

            Inside, he could see Isaac and Boyd and Erica as they struggled with a small, dark figure. He could smell wolf and fear and anger so thick it nearly choked him, and he wrinkled his snout. They were handling her like she was the animal humans believed supers to be.

            He wanted to stop them.

            He wanted to throw himself into the middle of the scuffle and tear them to pieces for touching his pack member.

            A soft touch against his shoulder drew his attention. Cora stood beside him, her own dark coat shining in the sunlight, her eyes touching briefly upon his. Maybe she had followed him, maybe she had been there all along. He didn't think it mattered. She was the only one who could share in this with him. She was the only one who could possibly feel the drag of _pack_ in her belly as they watched Laura.

            Together, they watched the group disappear around the corner, and Cora pressed into his side. He wasn't sure who needed the comfort, him or her, but he pressed back. When she lurched forward to pad into the barn, he didn't follow. He didn't want to watch the handlers, whom he had begun to consider so harmless, wrangle his sister into a cell. He didn't think he could bear the electric zap of a stick, or the scent of Laura's burned flesh.

            When he turned to leave, he caught the faint scent of Stiles on the breeze. He was there, somewhere, probably overseeing the handling from the inside. Maybe he was directing them. Maybe he would be the one to lock the door behind her.

            Her enraged howls chased him as he fled into the woods.

            It felt good to run, as he had done in the sanctuary, outstripping his own thoughts, paws flying over dirt and leaves and underbrush until all he could feel was the beating of his own heart. He ran until there was nothing left, and when he finally let it all catch up to him again, darkness had descended upon the world. It occurred to him that someone might wonder where he was, where he had gone, if he would come back, but his concern over the matter could have belonged to someone else for all he felt it.

            The outside of the barn was deserted when he arrived, though the scent of diesel fuel and overcharged emotions still hung heavy in the air. He glanced toward the manor, where all the lights were still on, and then padded over to the side entrance of the barn. The code hadn't changed since he'd begun training for Division 2 matches, and he shifted just enough of one paw to be able to key it in.

            The door hissed shut behind him as he padded down the aisle. On the other side of the concrete wall to his right was Negira's enclosure, and to his left, the gryphon. He could hear them both breathing, and the triple beat of Negira's hearts as she slept.

            There was a light on at the end of the hall, a small, blue thing illuminating only the number pad used to exit. It was enough for his keen eyes to see through the darkness, the click of his claws loud as he walked the long main hallway.

            He paused at the corner of her enclosure. Long, jagged claws marks had been torn into surfaces all around her and he could see through the door frame of the faux building that she had destroyed much of the inside of the living space as well. There wasn't much in the way of broken furniture; it looked as though Stiles had either removed or never placed much of it.

            She was there as well, just outside the house front, crouched on the porch. Her alpha-red eyes were trained on him and a low growl roughed at the back of her throat. It was a warning he didn't heed as he stepped closer. She couldn't get through the bars; he knew that even if she didn't.

            As soon as he was within arm's reach of the bars, she hurled herself forward. Her collar, made from thick leather tanned with a wolfsbane infusion, kept her from transforming into her full alpha form. Still, her beta claws swiped inches from his face, her snarl of frustration thick in her throat. He sat down there and watched her claw and bite and shove at the bars of the cage.

            Despite her best efforts, the enclosure held. Derek watched for a long time, until the first beams of sunlight began to peek through the window above the main barn door. She heaved herself up against the barrier one last time, a frustrated noise bubbling out of her before she fell still, her forehead pressed between two bars.

            After a moment, Derek shifted back to his human form, drawing her attention, though only her eyes moved to regard him. Carefully, slowly, he stretched out along the floor, laying just out of reach of her in case she decided he was a target again. Their eyes met, and she just sighed.

            "It's going to be okay, Laura," he murmured softly. Her head cocked a little, eyes brightening at the sound of her name. Derek wondered how long it had been since she'd heard her real name, the one their mother had given to her. "I can watch over you now. Stiles will take care of you. Cora is here too. We're together again."

            Laura made a high, pained noise at their sister's name, though it clipped off in favor of another growl. Derek sighed and closed his eyes, letting himself get absorbed in the rhythm of her steady, even heartbeat.

            The sound of a door hissing open roused Derek a while later. The scent of cooked meat swirled down the corridor, and he blinked sleep from his eyes as he sat up. Beside him, Laura was alert, focus trained on the far end of the hallway. Derek followed her gaze and watched as Cora rounded the corner, a basket in her hands. He lifted his nose, drawing in deep breaths to take in the delicious scent of breakfast.

            Cora smiled, though it didn't light her up like he was used to seeing. He knew the feeling. They were both exhausted. "Stiles said you were out here all night," she said as she walked toward them. She didn't even have to raise her voice; the entire barn was silent. "I thought you might be hungry."

            "Ravenous," Derek told her with a little wince. However, Cora didn't reprimand him. Instead, she trailed to a stop a couple of feet away and observed Laura for a long, thoughtful moment.

            "She doesn't smell like us," she said finally, taking a seat. The sudden movement startled Laura, who began assaulting the caging again. Derek caught Cora's slight flinch, but he didn't point it out. He just accepted the basket of food she had brought with her.

            "She still smells like the arena," Derek mumbled as he dug out a roll. There was butter baked into the soft crust, and he bit into it quickly.

            "You smelled like the arena too," Cora said, taking a seat beside him. "That's not it."

            Derek glanced up at her, and then over at Laura, who was glaring at them, a growl rumbling around in her chest. Her scent was so wrapped up in the many food smells that he couldn't pick out what Cora was talking about. "They told us that she had a lot of hormones in her system," he suggested, turning the half-eaten roll over in his hand. "Maybe it's changed her scent."

            "It's changed a lot of her," Cora said, eyes glued to her sister. She reached over and plucked a sausage from a container in the basket. She tossed it toward Laura, and it rolled along the ground inside the enclosure. "How could anyone just... turn into this?"

            Laura's growl snuffed out as she scrambled to snatch up the meat. Without any hesitation to investigate, she shoved it into her mouth and moved away from the bars, chewing and growling a warning like she thought they might take it from her if she didn't eat it fast enough. Derek's heart twisted up into his throat.

            "Arena fights change everyone," he said quietly, picking up another piece of sausage and passing it through the bars to Laura. She snapped at his fingers, but she didn't mean it now that there was food involved, and he didn't flinch. "When you set foot into the pit, you don't step out again without blood on your hands or hide. When you fight in the upper Divisions, you take a life or you don't step out again at all. Sometimes, what steps out of those kinds of fights... it isn't you anymore. It's her."

            Cora glanced over at him, and he could hear her heart beating irregularly as she tried to find the right words. He took a bite out of the roll she had tossed at him and looked back at her until she dropped her gaze to her hands. "Do you think that will happen to you? Are you going to come home lost, too?"

            Breath stuck in Derek's throat and he chaffed his palms together, the feel of the hobgoblin's blood slick on his hands in his memory. "I don't know," he said honestly. His eyes were so blue in the mirror that first night. "I don't think anyone goes in thinking they'll go feral."

            "It just happens," Cora said, and Derek nodded. He had told her some about the arenas, enough to know that she would take them very seriously. No one had come to talk to them about the day Cora would have to step into the arena in order for Stiles to keep her, but Derek knew she couldn't stay here indefinitely without paying the price. "Do you think she'll remember us? When she wakes up."

            "Cora..." Derek began. Surely someone had told her there was little chance of Laura returning to a sane state of mind.

            "I know everyone says she's not going to get better," Cora interrupted. "But I can't stand that. It's not fair. It's not fair to get back just her body, Derek. It's not. They might as well have sent her in a redbox if she's not going to wake up, so believe what you want, but she's coming back to us. She has to."

            "Okay," Derek said quietly, letting his shoulders drop. He plucked a container of scrambled eggs and a fork from the basket and began to eat.

            "Okay," Cora said, following suit.

            For a while, they sat and ate their breakfast in silence, tossing bits to Laura. She snatched up every piece and ate it quickly, inching closer and closer to the bars until she was sitting up with her toes against them. Eventually she was sitting quietly as well, watching their hands as they ate, waiting for them to pass her food.

            Derek didn't mention that Cora had brought enough food for all three of them.

          

* * *

_Any warden intending to waive treatment_

_at the Arena must provide proof that they have_

_access to appropriate alternate medical facilities_

* * *

 

            Stiles tapped lightly on the fogged-glass portion of the office door and then turned the handle to let himself in. Deaton sat behind the large metal desk across the room, the land-line phone pressed to his ear. They were too far below ground for cell phones to work. The vet held up a finger to indicate Stiles should wait, and then continued to listen. After a beat, Stiles moved fully into the room and closed the door with both hands to keep it quiet. He took the seat Deaton nodded toward, and settled back to wait.

            "Yes," Deaton said. "I'm aware." A long pause, and then: "Yes, he is aware of that fine. I believe he is in the process of registering her for Division 3 currently." A short pause. "No, Division 3. Yes, he normally fights the uppers."

            Stiles sighed. This again, he thought. The registration regulatory wing of the ARC had had been pressing on him for months now about getting Cora into the games. He had finally deregistered her as a breeder, purposefully misdirected her new registration, gotten the barcode information mis-encoded, registered her as ill, and they were finally at the limit of how long they could stall. Deaton had been attempting another illness ruse, but it was not going well enough; werewolves were not known for being unhealthy.

            "She should be healthy enough for Division 3," Deaton told whoever was on the other side of the line. "I've recommended he start her off easy, so as to keep his game piece as long as possible. It wouldn't make very good television if she went into a Division 2 fight in this state."

            Leaning his head back, Stiles folded his hands on his belly and closed his eyes. It wasn't a problem that he was going to fight Cora in Division 3, where she would hopefully only ever take minor damages, but it was unusual for wardens who fought in the higher Divisions to go back. Since he'd just gone backward with Derek last year, it was even more unusual. Not Argent-level unusual - he wasn't retiring his entire outfit to Division 3 and below in a week's span - but it was unusual nonetheless.

            "I will send you her exam results tomorrow morning, Jack," Deaton said, sounding exasperated. "I have to go. Yes. Okay, good night."

            The phone clacked on the cradle and Stiles picked up his head in time to catch Deaton running a hand over his head. The vet lifted a folder from his desk and held it out for Stiles. "Long day?" Stiles asked.

            Deaton gave him a look. "Those are the results from today's blood draw," he said, instead of answering. "Left side, fourth row, says the drugs have cleared her system."

            "The ones she was given," Stiles said, scanning the page. He didn't know exactly what he was looking at, but he had seen enough blood test results to know that nothing was particularly unusual about these.

            "And the ones her body was producing," Deaton said. Stiles looked up, and Deaton nodded confirmation of his own statement. "It's been a few days since she arrived, and Erica tells me there's been no improvement in her behavior?"

            "No," Stiles agreed. "There hasn't been." He sighed, setting the results on the desk and rubbing his face. He didn't know how he was going to tell Derek that it wasn't the drugs. She'd gone feral, actually feral, and there might be no getting her back. His brows scrunched, and he tapped the results with one finger. "How long did these take to run?"

            "A few hours," Deaton said, tipping his head just a fraction. "Why?"

            "It took over a month for the ARC to run theirs," he said, Danny's theory that there was something else going on spinning around his head.

            "That's... kind of the reason I asked you to come here," Deaton admitted. "It's been a long time since I had to run the test for this specific toxin, and I had to look up a few things before I could do it. Namely, previous cases to find the actual procedure. I ran across something... odd."

            "Odd?" Stiles echoed, skin crawling at the tone. "How odd?"

            "Quite odd," Deaton said, leaning a little to make sure his door was shut completely, even though there wasn't anyone else in the entire building after hours. "The last public record of a proven instance of brood hormone use was about sixteen or so years ago, in a fight with-"

            "Talia Hale," Stiles guessed, feeling as though someone had punched the breath out of him.

            "Yes," Deaton confirmed, looking vaguely confused. "How did you know?"

            "Call it a hunch," Stiles said. If he had been uncertain of foul play before, he wasn't now. "So someone dosed her, too?"

            "Actually, no," Deaton told him, reaching over to the file he had passed Stiles. He pulled out a stapled group of papers and handed it back. "It was her opponent. In her second-to-last match before she was defeated, Talia was put up against a dragon that had recently laid a clutch of eggs."

            Stiles blinked. "A dra- So, the hormones weren't artificial?"

            "No," Deaton confirmed. "But the effect was no less dangerous. Talia must have been an amazing a fighter to have won that match."

            "She was," Stiles said, looking over the test results in his hands. There was something off, something that tickled at the back of his mind, but he couldn't find it on the paper. "I have a question. It may sound weird. Paranoid even."

            "Go ahead," Deaton said, laying his hands on the edge of the desk.

            "Talia Hale was being fought by Warden Hale, who owned and operated a private breeding facility in northern California," Stiles said. Deaton's brows rose a little, but he remained quiet. "If she was doing the same thing that I'm trying to do with Derek, how likely do you think it is that- that the ARC would purposefully sabotage the effort?"

            "Ah," Deaton said, nodding slowly. He let the information sit between them for a moment, still nodding to himself, before he seemed to be decided. "I don't know if the ARC would do something like that, but I do know that a broody dragon doesn't just happen to appear in a match. You know the hoops dragon wardens go through just to walk a piece onto the board."

            "That's what I was thinking," Stiles agreed, gut churning. Getting a dragon, _any_ dragon, into the pit was an agility course of paperwork. Even if Stiles didn't have to run it himself anymore, Danny still called him specifically to bitch about it every time he started the process. "Thank you. I have to go- I need to call Scott."

            He stood up too fast, nearly taking the chair with him in his haste, and Deaton got to his feet as well. "Stiles," he called, as Stiles reached the door. When Stiles turned, Deaton gave him a look brimming with concern. "Whatever you've gotten yourself into... be careful."

            Stiles forced a smile that faded far too quickly. "I can write you a letter of recommendation, if you want out now," he offered. "You're one of the best out there."

            "No," Deaton said, looking amused. "I believe I am where I belong."

            A more genuine smile found itself onto Stiles' lips. "Thank you. For everything."

            He closed the door behind him, and pulled out his cell phone as he headed for the elevator. He needed to call Scott. He needed to _see_ Scott, and he needed to speak with Scott's group. Danny was right; something was definitely going on.

          

* * *

_Prior to any match_

_Wardens participating in Divisions 1 & 2_

_shall be responsible for obtaining_

_insurance for their game pieces_

* * *

 

            The laboratory was as clean as any Stiles had ever visited, which was to say not particularly. The shelves above all of the work benches were crammed with supplies or paperwork, though at least he saw none full of both. There were blue pads on the bench-tops and equipment only half of which he recognized scattered atop any available surface. Scott walked a few steps ahead of him, not actually looking at any of it as they headed for their destination- a small office at the end of the walkway.

            "Dr. Yukimura?" Scott called quietly through the cracked door. There was an amount of shuffling and shifting from behind the door, and then an older man opened the door, looking hassled. His eyes widened when he saw Stiles.

            "Oh! You're here already! Come in," he said, drawing open the door wide enough for them to enter as he moved back inside. Scott and Stiles exchanged a look, and then followed suit. "I lost track of time. It's good to see you again, Stiles."

            "You, too," Stiles repeated automatically. He put his hands on the back of one of the chairs in the room, not wanting to sit down for this. Scott hesitated, and then took a stand at his side. "It's been what... a year and a half? Two years?"

            "Almost two years," the doctor said with a faint smile. "Scott said you had some questions about... our organization."

            "Yeah," Stiles said. He had rehearsed a hundred different ways to bring up what he needed to say, but what came out of his mouth was: "Did you do this before, with Talia Hale? What I'm doing with Derek, did Talia try to do it?"

            Dr. Yukimura's eyes widened considerably at the blunt question, and he froze, staring at Stiles as if he'd sprouted wings. "What makes you ask?"

            "Did you?" Stiles said, voice hardening as any lingering traces of doubt vanished.

            Another moment of hesitation, and then Dr. Yukimura sagged, and nodded a little. "Yes," he said. "We attempted the same process over a decade ago, but Talia failed to complete the contract. She was killed in her final fight. We were _so_ close."

            "You were-" Stiles began, stopping himself by sheer force of will.

            It still grated on his nerves, to hear people speak so impersonally about supernatural beings, like they were only pieces in a game. Somehow it was worse coming from people like Dr. Yukimura, who claimed to know better or feel differently.

            Talia had _died_ , the facility they had been working with had burned to the ground, and the survivors, Talia's children, were left to rot in the games or the breeding pens or who-knows-where becoming feral. The organization had been too concerned about not having accomplished its goal- even still, its leader was lamenting not getting what he wanted rather than the lives lost or damaged.

            "I don't think her last fight was a mistake," he ground out at last. He hadn't come here to argue the semantics of humanity.

            Eyes narrowing, Dr. Yukimura asked: "What do you mean?"

            "I mean, I think the ARC did something that ensured she would lose, so that she wouldn't fulfill the requirements of your proposition," Stiles said. "I think they had her killed, and I think they burned down the facility that had agreed to work with you toward that goal, and I think they covered it up in the aftermath. And I can't prove any of it because all of the records I've found are blackmarked to the sky and back."

            There was a short pause as he took the information in, and then Dr. Yukimura sighed. "I assumed that's why you wanted to meet," he said, looking oddly relieved. Stiles wondered if there were other, worse reasons to want to meet. "I heard about the drugged fighter you took in."

            "And you didn't think to come warn me about any of it?" Stiles said, keeping his anger under control. He looked at Scott, who took a deep breath.

            "They heard from me," Scott explained. "You weren't listening, so when I got back from Lydia's birthday, I started dredging up what I could find from our own records of our previous attempt. We all did, we were all looking, and-"

            "And we have copies for you to take home," Dr. Yukimura finished. "I was actually going to send Scott to you with them this weekend. I didn't feel it was something which could be discussed over the phone, all things considered."

            Something hot and angry roiled around inside of Stiles, but he knew it had no basis. They had done exactly what he would have done in their place, and they were right; there was no way any of this could be discussed over the phone. He was fairly confident nothing in his house was actively bugged, but not confident enough to trust everyone's lives to that assumption, and certainly not confident that anything here was safe enough.

            "It's not," he finally said, letting out his breath. Scott laid a hand on his shoulder in support. "I don't want to be kept in the dark if you find out new information, though. I have to protect myself, and the people that work for me, and the fighters in my stable."

            "We understand," the doctor said, nodding. He reached under his desk and pulled out a nylon bag. Stiles could see a few file folders in it, stuffed with neat stacks of papers. "I will make sure that if we find any updates, we bring them straight to you. In that same vein... we have been searching for video footage of the fights. It was a long time ago, and considering our lack of success, there may be some meat to your theory about the ARC covering up the events."

            "I want copies," Stiles said. Video evidence of her fights. Videos he could show to Derek, of his mother. Possibly the only visual remainder of her left. It would be a reason to talk to him, and maybe find out what had been bothering him lately.

            "Of course," Dr. Yukimura said instantly. "I can't mail them, but I think Scott wouldn't mind paying you a visit to bring them. You will, of course, let me know what, if anything, you can glean from the records? Considering all that you are already doing for us, we would like to keep you as safe as possible."

            Stiles nodded, accepting the bag as it was passed over the desk. "Yeah," he said. "I'll make sure you hear about anything important." That left him enough room to still be telling the truth if there was something he didn't want to share. Importance was, after all, a matter of perspective.

            "Thank you," he said. "Was there anything else?"

            "No." Stiles glanced to Scott, who shook his head. "I should start looking at all of this. It's going to take a while to compare it with everything I have at home."

            Dr. Yukimura made a noise of agreement and ushered them to the door. "Be safe, Warden Stilinski. I hope to see you again soon."

            Stiles forced a smile, and then practically started to drag Scott back into the laboratory toward the exit. The door to the office clicked shut behind them, and Scott relaxed, slowing his pace. "What's your rush?"

            "I just want to get home," Stiles said.

            It wasn't a lie; he _did_ want to get home. He just also wanted to leave this place. Scott's boss had always made him slightly uncomfortable, though he'd never had a good reason why. He had looked the guy up before agreeing to any sort of contract with them, and his record had been as clean as Stiles'. That, in itself, made Stiles nervous; no one's records were as clean as Stiles' were unless tampering had been done. Stiles would know; his own were not quite as squeaky as they looked.

            "Do you have to go _tonight_?" Scott asked, digging in his heels to halt their progress completely. Stiles made an exasperated noise, but he stopped as well. "Like, is there something you have to personally do there?"

            Stiles sighed. "Not really," he said. His flight wasn't even until tomorrow evening, but he knew he would be able to get it changed if he wanted.

            "Then come stay the night," Scott said. "The kids haven't seen you in a while, and Allison made cake."

            That drew Stiles up short, brow scrunching up as he tipped his head a little. "For dinner?"

            Scott grinned. "For dessert," he corrected. "Cake, and ice cream, and, like, _way_ more candles than when we were kids, because you're getting pretty old, dude."

            "Shit," Stiles said, and Scott began laughing as he grabbed his friend's arm and began steering him toward the exit. "Shit, it's my birthday, isn't it?"

            "I'm telling Allison you forgot your own birthday," Scott teased as they reached the exit. Stiles just groaned and let himself be dragged out.

 

* * *

_Any arena which hosts matches between_

_flight-capable game pieces must have a_

_playing board that is completely enclosed_

* * *

 

             The crowd was not as loud as it normally was, though it was by no means quiet. Derek sat in the holding pen, head leaned back against the steel behind him and eyes closed. He had his knees drawn up to rest his forearms on, and he could hear the two fighters in the next couple of pens talking quietly. He didn't bother listening in on whatever they were discussing; probably the fights they had won or lost today. He was next, and the current fight was almost over, if the pitch of the crowd was anything to go by.

            He very nearly missed the faint tap of a finger on the other side of the wall. When it happened again, he opened his eyes and shifted around. "Yes?" he said, realizing the conversation had stopped.

            "You're the Hale?" the nymph asked. The scent of _forest_ was all over the holding pen area, which was part of why Derek had been ignoring her. The smell made him wish he was elsewhere. "Ashborn- that's you, right? They say you're a Hale kid. Talia Hale's pup."

            "Yeah," Derek said tiredly. He didn't want to hear that name. It had been all Stiles had talked about for a week after getting back from Scott's. It made his chest tight just to hear her name, and he wondered how the little nymph had heard it. "Why? How did you know?"

            There was shuffling on the other side of the wall, and Derek straightened up some. "There's talk about you, in Division 3. A lot of talk, a lot of chatter about a place where we don't have to fight anymore. They say you're leading us there."

            Derek let his head fall back, slumping. It sounded like a revolution when she said it like that. Glamorous, almost. "It's not really like that," he said.

            A moment of silence passed, broken only by the crowd. "So... so there's no safe haven?"

            Hopelessness cracked her voice, and Derek hastened to correct her. "No- I mean, yes, there is. It's just, I'm not leading anyone to it. I'm just fighting to be the first one there, and if I make it, others might get a chance to fight their way there, too."

            "We'd fight for you," she said, with no hesitation.

            "It's not that kind of fighting," Derek said quickly. "I'm not fighting the humans. I'm just fighting... you. Other non-humans. If... I win enough fights, they might let me live in a bigger cage. But I- I don't- it's not really ideal. It's not- It's bad, you know? They want me to kill people to get there. They want me to kill people in order to stop fighting."

            "You say it's bad," she remarked quietly, "but... the rest of us are fighting in order to _keep_ _fighting_. They want us to kill people just so that we can come back and kill more people. Like an ouroboros, round and round, eating ourselves up, except for us... there won't be anything left in the end. There is no safe haven for us. _That's_ bad."

            Derek's stomach sank at the reminder. In all the months that he had been fighting for something, he had lost sight of fighting for nothing. Fighting just to stay alive. Fighting because there was nothing else. "I'm sorry," he said. It sounded as inadequate as it felt.

            She was quiet for a moment, and then she tapped on the wall between their kennels. "I'm not going to tell them," she said. "That there's nothing to fight for. I'm not going to tell them because I've seen something I'd never seen before- hope. There's fighters carving out space for hope inside them, and I won't take that away. Are you gonna fight to get out?"

            "Yes," Derek said without hesitation. He shifted, so that he was facing the wall, mind churning up everything she had said to him, heart thick in his chest. "Hey, can you do something for me?"

            "I said I would," she told him earnestly.

            "Tell them there's hope?" he requested. "Tell them I'm fighting for our freedom, and to fix things, but that it's not time for a fight yet. It will be, someday, but not yet."

            "Is it true?" she asked. "Is there going to be a fight?"

            Derek swallowed. "Maybe," he said. He didn't think it would be good if it came down to a fight - to a battle, or even a war, he thought - but so much could change if those willing to fight were also ready. If he didn't make it, if he died in the ring, he didn't want their hope to die with him. "Tell them that I'll give them a sign, when it's time. That I'll- that I'll give them a sign, or if I don't, if I die, that's it."

            "If you die, you want them to fight?" she echoed, seeking confirmation rather than being confused.

            Yes, Derek thought, realizing that it was true. He did want them to fight. If he couldn't give them hope, couldn't give them a chance at freedom, then he wanted them to tear the world apart and take it for themselves. If they all banded together, maybe they could forge the sort of new world that Cora spoken of, the sort of world where they could forsake collars and sand pits and zap sticks, and trade them in for sunshine and soft grass and full moons.

            "Yes," he said hoarsely. The arena bell rang three times, signaling that the pit was cleared and ready for the next fight. "I'm going to make it through to freedom for all of us, but if I don't, if I die... then you should fight. Free yourselves."

            The door to his pen began to creak open and hot, muggy air roiled in through the opening from the pit. It smelled of blood and death. He hefted himself to his feet as he heard the footsteps of his handlers coming down the hallway. He was out of time.

            "I'll tell them," the nymph said. "I'll tell everyone who will listen. Derek Hale fights for our freedom, and we will fight for it ourselves if he falls. May your sands be red, wolf."

            He caught sight of Erica rounding the bend, and he turned to head for the arena floor. "And your bells swift," he replied, dropping to all fours as he let his shift take him.

            This time, the damp sand beneath him didn't feel clammy. It didn't feel heavy or dangerous. It felt like every step he took was something _important_. It _mattered_. As he scanned the arena for his opponent, he felt a new sort of power within himself, something which made him lighter and stronger.

            He wasn't alone in this fight. In the arena, fighting had always felt segregated, as if it were him against the world because he might later have to blood or kill anyone he met.

            He wasn't alone, though.

            Somehow, news of his efforts had traveled amongst the fighters. He realized that they spoke to one another. The hazy memory of community bubbled just below the surface of his mind, from a time when he lived with his family, surrounded by others. How many conversations had been struck up in the kennels while awaiting a fight? Why had he not realized how connected they all were?

            He wasn't alone.

            "Derek?" His name filtered through the com, the static clearing almost instantly. "You're fighting an angel, remember? Look up."

            His gaze swept upward, to one of the four wooden support pillars. The arena was humanoid only, so it was smaller than some of the others Derek had been in. To his right, with its claws hooked into the metal bands that wrapped the pillar, perched his quarry. It was watching him with bright eyes and a hungry smile.

            Angels, he knew, were very close to being classed as non-humanoid. All the seraphim had been switched to Division 1 a long time ago, longer than Derek could remember, but the cherubim still fought in humanoid divisions. He'd seen them a few times, and fought two of them when he had been in Division 4. They didn't belong here.

            They were monsters, and the cherub above him now was no different.

            Its long, golden-white wings were drooped open, the primaries clipped so that they were only as long as Derek's arm, leaving it able to jump extraordinary high but rendering it flightless. He could see all of its ribs, all of its bones, beneath the pallid, grey skin. There was no heartbeat; he knew they had no heart, no blood flowing through their veins. They were made of what happened when light stagnated, coagulated into a solid form and claimed consciousness. He shuddered, crouching a little lower to the sand.

            There was a collar of iron around its neck, and Derek knew that there were inward-facing spikes around the inside of it. A spike of iridium anchored the collar into the base of the angel's neck, keeping it grounded in its current phase of existence and reducing its ability to use its Light to forge weapons.

            Its maw hung open, rows of sharp teeth gleaming behind peeled-back lips and clutched in its hand was a small shaft of light. Derek knew it wouldn't be able to maintain the weapon long once it started moving. He was more concerned about its hideous, twisted claws.

            Around and above them, the crowd was turning restless at the lack of action, so Derek drew himself up to his full height, claws out and fangs bared. Taking in a deep breath, he prepared himself to engage. An unearthly snarl tore out of his throat, a deep, throaty challenge, and the squealing roar of the angel rose to drown it out. The crowd hushed.

            The angel sneered, but it did not launch itself to attack him. " _You're_ the Hale?" it rasped, hopping a little forward and leering down at him. "You're not much to look at."

            "Come down here and say that," Derek snapped back.

            "Derek?" Stiles asked in his ear. "Is everything okay? What's going on?"

            Derek clenched his jaw shut as he remembered that angels could speak so that only one person could hear them. The creature cackled, a grating, rough noise that set Derek's teeth on edge. "It's fine," he told Stiles.

            "You're not getting out of this pit alive," the angel said, form flickering lighter and darker. It solidified, lips peeling back from its teeth again as it failed to change phase. "You won't save anyone; won't even save yourself. How many bites do you think I can swallow before they get to me?"

            Derek's stomach turned. Very, very few species of fighters ever considered consuming their kills in the arena. It was feral behavior for most supers. "I don't think you'll get a chance," he replied.

            The angel snorted, the sound dissolving into an eerie cackle. "What's left of you won't be worth putting in a redbox." It bared teeth in the semblance of a smile as it picked up its wings and spread them wide, preparing to jump from the pillar. "But keep hoping, puppy. Keep hoping- hope makes your flesh sweeter."

            "Don't listen to it," Stiles said in his ear. "I don't know what it's telling you, but don't listen to it. Just kill it."

            "I know," Derek said tersely, watching as the angel coiled up and launched itself away from the pillar, clawed hands reaching out for Derek. He ducked, avoiding the swoop, and lashed out at the thing's ankles as it passed overhead.

            It screeched and wheeled around on him, and the fight began.   

 

* * *

_Failure to provide proper veterinary treatment_

_for injured game pieces will result in_

_permanent banning from Arena games_

* * *

 

            Derek's arm was still throbbing later that evening as he tried to focus on the words in his lap. The book was old enough to have spine creases but new enough to smell like modern day printing presses instead of dust and darkness. Cora had come in to check on him and bring him food, which she had also helped him to eat, and then retreated to her own bedroom. Usually when he was alone, it was easier to put his attention on healing. Now he was distracted by the emptiness of his room, and the itchy feeling of not having seen Stiles since the match ended.

            As such, the soft tap on his door was not unwelcome. He didn't invite Stiles in, but he didn't tell him to leave. He hadn't been sure he wanted Stiles to visit, but a part of him was relieved to see Stiles' face when he peeked around the edge of the door. Derek could smell the nervousness Stiles felt and hear the race of his heart as his eyes traced over Derek in the dim lighting.

            "Hey," Stiles said. It sounded dull, listless.

            "Hey," Derek replied.

            He glanced up from the book in his lap just long enough to meet Stiles' gaze. He wanted to talk, wanted to be able to interact with Stiles like it had been before, but at the sanctuary, Stiles had made it sound like he wouldn't keep information from Derek and yet he was.

            It had been two months since the party, and Stiles had spent many days working with other humans to sort out what had happened to Derek's mother. Despite the time away, Stiles had found multiple opportunities to talk to Derek about Talia. Despite the hours Derek spent talking at Laura, just out of her reach, Stiles had come to talk business with him.

            But he hadn't said a word about his conversation with Scott. He hadn't given any indication that being as close to Derek as they had been at the sanctuary was dangerous.

            Derek didn't want to have to be the one to bring it up. He wanted Stiles to keep his word and talk to him. What they had couldn't work without that.

            "How are you feeling?" Stiles asked, slipping inside the room and closing the door behind him. He stayed there, for which Derek was grateful.

            "Okay," Derek said. It wasn't quite a lie- he wasn't dying, but he wasn't feeling better than just 'okay,' either. "My arm still aches a bit." The angel had nearly torn it off, and it hadn't lied when it threatened to devour him.

            "I can get you another dose of painkillers, if you want," Stiles offered.

            It wasn't much of an offer, considering the damage, and Derek shook his head. Too many painkillers would actually slow the healing down, dulling his body's ability to sense the necessity of mending.

            Stiles sagged a little, putting his hands behind his back before he settled against the door. His heart was thumping hard and for just a moment Derek thought maybe he was going to bring it up. "You had a good fight today."

            Disappointment prickled Derek's skin. "There's another person dead today because of me," Derek replied.

            "It wasn't a very nice person," Stiles offered. "It sounded like it was saying some pretty nasty things to you."

            "Yeah," Derek said softly. He may have washed his hands of the ichorous light coating them, but he couldn't cleanse himself of the gurgling, fluid-thick cackle echoing around his skull. Even as he had torn the creature apart into beams of light, it had laughed at him, shrieking that he was going to fail, that he would never escape the pit, no one ever escaped the pit. _Pretty nasty things_ didn't begin to cover its jeers.

            "Derek?" Stiles asked. When Derek's eyes focused, he realized Stiles had come closer at some point- close enough to touch Derek but not brave enough to do so.

            "Sorry," Derek rasped, setting his book aside and running his hands through his hair in an attempt to clear his head. Maybe the angel hadn't been that far off after all. Maybe no one ever truly left the pit, even if they managed to survive it.

            "Don't be," Stiles said. "You just sounded like maybe you were hurt."

            "Yeah," Derek agreed. "I was. I'll get over it. Did you need something?"

            Stiles inched backward, and scent of anxiety thickened in the air between them. "I just- I wanted to see how you were. That thing took a pretty big chunk out of your arm."

            Derek looked down at the sterile, white bandages wrapped around his upper arm. His forearm rested on a sling because there wasn't enough muscle left for him to lift it on his own. "It'll grow back before my next fight."

            "Would it help if you- um, if you had the missing piece?" Stiles asked hesitantly. When Derek looked up in question, Stiles flushed and gave a little shrug. "They gave it to me after the fight."

            He couldn't help it- he laughed. The sound was startling in the stillness of the room, and he cut it off abruptly, but it felt good to laugh about _something_. "They gave you a chunk of my arm?" he asked, incredulous. The corner of his lips turned up just a little bit against his will. Talking with Stiles, joking with Stiles, felt natural. It felt right. "What did they think you could do with it?"

            "I have no idea," Stiles said, looking a little relieved.

            "Well, I can't use it," Derek told him with a little gesture at his wounded arm. Already some of the flesh had regrown, though it would probably be at least a week before it looked like it had before the fight, and several more before the scar finished fading. "You should probably just throw it away."

            "Yeah," Stiles said. He fidgeted for a moment, fingers picking at one another before he finally let out a heavy breath and backed up a step. "Well, I just wanted to check on you. I'll let you rest."

            Derek's insides twisted up at the thought of watching Stiles walk away again. Whatever Stiles was or wasn't telling him, he didn't think it was worth letting them break. So, when Stiles turned to leave, Derek scooted quickly to the edge of the bed.

            "Stiles."

            Stiles froze, hand on the doorknob, and Derek took a deep breath. He tried to dredge up the words to ask Stiles what was going on, what was going to happen to them- what was already happening to them. There were so many questions but really only one that mattered, and Derek wasn't ready to ask it.

            "Thank you," he said tiredly instead. Stiles' shoulders dropped a little, but he smiled in return.

            "I'm sorry I've been so busy," he told Derek. "If I took a few days off would you... want to spend some time together?"

            "If I say yes, will you talk to me?" Derek asked. Stiles' heartbeat picked up, and Derek knew his tone had communicated exactly what sort of talking he wanted to do. He added anyway: "I mean, _really_ talk."

            Stiles swallowed, but he nodded. "Yeah," he said, voice cracking on the word. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Yeah. I think that would be good."

            Derek nodded. "Okay," he said. "Goodnight, Stiles."

            "Good night, Derek," Stiles said, a small, forced smile flickering onto his lips. Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him and leaving Derek alone in the darkness.

 

* * *

_Should investigations confirm mistreatment of any game piece_

_the ARC shall prosecute the perpetrating person(s)_

_to the full extent of the law_

* * *

 

            Derek watched her sit quietly up against the bars of her pen, her head resting on the patterned metal. The mats in her hair had gotten so bad the handlers had sedated her to cut them out, and now her short hair stood up at odd angles. She still wouldn't let most people near her without a fight, but she had gotten used to Derek- or at least, she had decided it was not worth the energy to keep trying to kill him.

            He had dreamed of her, dreamed of running through endless fields and forest with her, Cora at their side. His mother and father ran shoulder-to-shoulder ahead of them, his mother's unearthly howls filling the night sky until the stars had no choice but to sing back. He could never see his father's face, but he knew the beat of his heart and the sound of his wolfsong. Behind him was the sound of his uncle's footpads, in harmony with his aunt and his two small cousins. Together they were strong, they were a pack.

            In the distance, no matter where they ran, he could hear others. There were other wolves, but they were not the only creatures that ran the night with his pack. Shifters of all sorts returned their calls and above them flew dragons the color of night.

            They were free, all of them, and their voices became the heartbeat of the wilds to which they belonged.

            He had awoken from his dream in a cold sweat, and come out to Laura's pen to escape the eerie feeling. Even awake, he could hear the pounding of footsteps, the sharp cries of wild creatures. He craved the quiet of the barn, the comfort of his alpha after being away from her for so long.

            "They were all singing the same song," he murmured to Laura. She didn't react, and he rested his head against the bars as well. He had gotten braver after she had stopped yowling and raking at the bars to get to him. "It was beautiful but... haunting. I've never thought about what freedom would really look like."

            She snorted, and his eyes darted to her, but she remained where she was. He tipped his head, counting the hearts around them, listening to the breathing to see who was awake and who was asleep.

            "I had a fight yesterday," he said softly. "I killed an angel. A cherub, not a seraph. They're kind of terrifying, but kind of beautiful, too, if you look at them right. If you just look at their light, instead of their dark. It wasn't nice, but I still didn't want to kill it."

            He fell silent for a while then, turning the biscuit in his hands over and over. He could tell she was watching. He'd brought breakfast down with him, enough for them to share, and the biscuit was the last of it. Though he wasn't hungry, he hadn't thrown it away yet. She didn't seem to be hungry, either, but when he passed her a small chunk she took it immediately. It had been a month since her arrival and every day that no one took it away from her, she got a little better about her aggression over food.

            "If I win enough fights, they'll let me get out of the arena," he said. He'd told her it a million times, or so it seemed, hoping that it would bring some sort of light to her eyes. So far his stories seemed to have no more impact than any other words he spoke. "They'll send me to the sanctuary. Humans aren't allowed in and there's a huge forest and a lake and some fields. It was really beautiful, Laura."

            He sighed, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. "Stiles took me there to visit," he said quietly. She whined, very low and soft, he assumed more at the tone of his voice than because his words actually meant anything. "There was fresh air and the moon on my pelt. I turned wolf and went running, all over it. Stiles lets us run the full moon here, but it's bigger there. The ground is wild there, and the forest whispers back when you howl, just like mom used to say it would when we were free. She was right."

            She made a small noise and then reached through the bar toward the rest of his biscuit. A sad smile twitched at his lips as he released it to her, and he watched her gnawing off pieces until it was gone.

           "Do you remember mom?" he asked tiredly. He hadn't been able to go back to sleep after waking up from his dream. "She was strong. Fierce. Sometimes I can't remember how she looked. I remember her dark hair but not the color of her eyes. I'll never forget the sound of her voice, though. She used to sing us a lullaby every night."

            He hummed a couple of notes and Laura shifted beside him. Sometimes, when it was late and he was falling asleep, he would sing the song to her. Since Boyd had given him a copy of the song lyrics and played the tune for him on a piano in one of the spare rooms, Derek had practiced singing it.

            _Omen nio hah_  
_Shailoh Shailoh, yatreet ka_  
_Shailoh shna, otvit ka*_

            He trailed off at the feel of her fingertips resting against the back of his palm. Taking in short, soft breaths, he shifted enough that he could see her face. She was staring back at him this time, her grey-blue eyes clear. Slowly, so as not to startle her, he turned his hand over so that their hands were palm to palm, and her fingers threaded into his almost fluidly.

            "Laura?" he whispered.

            A flicker of recognition swirled through her expression, and then she smiled faintly. "Hi, Puppy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lullaby lyrics are from a song in "Wolf's Rain," a 2003 anime release. The song is in an ancient form of Gaelic (one no longer used), and the portion I've used translates roughly to "Give in to sleep | Great Wolf, Great Wolf, you're safe | Great Wolf, I will protect you"
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me this far! I really appreciate everyone that has visited to read :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to HystericBlue for the beta read and as always, thank you to to [Elin](http://firecracker452.tumblr.com) for rooting around to do the deep beta work.
> 
> An absolutely HUGE thank you to all of you who have left comments so far. Sorry it's take so long to get this out! I went through a few incredibly rough months, and reading such lovely thoughts from you folks gave me reasons I had to smile. I'm working on this story for [Nanowrimo](http://www.nanowrimo.org), so with just a couple chapters left, I expect to finish it before the end of this year!

 

* * *

  _Arena veterinary clinics shall maintain not less_

_than two (2) veterinarians trained and certified_

_in the treatment of supernatural creatures_

* * *

 

            Laura pulled her arm back to her chest, watching in fascination as the hole from the needle closed almost instantaneously. A second later, Derek reached out and took her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze, and she smiled wanly at him. Between them and the door stood Stiles, watching them a little nervously as they all waited.

            Earlier, Derek had managed to pry himself away from Laura long enough to locate Stiles and tell him what had happened. Together they'd returned to the barn, and Stiles had given Derek the key to let her out of her pen. The other wolves watched on curiously as Stiles herded the two out the door and insisted upon seeing the vet immediately. Though Derek had refused to leave Laura's side, Cora had been convinced to carry news of Laura's recovery to the rest of the household.

            Deaton disengaged the line from the vacuum tube and placed the butterfly needle setup into the sharps container on the wall, noting something on his clipboard. He looked up when the silence remained unbroken, and seemed to realize that everyone was watching him, waiting.

            "Oh," he said. "As far as I can tell, she's fine. The lab work will take a little longer, but the original results were astoundingly normal, aside from the increased hormones, and the last couple of results haven't even had that. Her vitals and reflexes all check out... the only thing left is her- your mental faculties."

            The last he addressed directly to Laura, who shrank away from him. Derek stood firm beside her, keeping her from going anywhere. "Her mind?" he asked.

            "Essentially, yes," Deaton confirmed. He smiled encouragingly to Laura. "How are you feeling?"

            She glanced at Derek, who gave her the same smile as Deaton had. He knew what she was thinking; they had spent so long avoiding talking around humans in order to save their own skins that it was nerve-wracking to even think about using their words. It hadn't been so long ago that he'd forgotten how that felt. Even here, he was careful around the rare visitor, and every time they faced an arena he didn't have to work hard to remember to keep his mouth shut.

            "It's okay," he told her softly. "They know about us. These two will never hurt you. They just need you to answer their questions so that they can help you."

            Something flickered over her features at the prospect of humans _helping_ her, but she turned her attention to the vet. "I am uninjured," she said quietly, voice scratchy.

            Deaton's smile had nothing to do with happiness. "What I mean is, ah... how much do you remember? How far back?"

            She glanced to Derek, who gave her a look that said she wasn't going to get out of answering. "What's the last thing you remember?" he asked.

            "Fighting," she rasped with a little shake of her head. "I remember fighting a... another shifter. Another alpha, after... Sh-she just kept playing with me. She was stronger, better. She had control I didn't have. I don't... I don't know what happened to her."

            Stiles traded a glance with Deaton, and then shifted his stance a little uncomfortably. "You must have beaten her," Stiles told her, though the gentleness did nothing to soften the impact. "You wouldn't be here if you hadn't."

            Laura ducked her head in a nod of acceptance, and Derek squeezed her hand. "You're alive," he murmured, leaning closer to her, brushing shoulders to comfort her. "That's what counts. You're here, alive."

            "Why...?" she questioned, looking up. "Why am I here? What- what happened to my warden?"

            "He dosed you with an illegal drug, and swapped you into a fight across from Derek, where you should never have been," Stiles said plainly. "Derek kept the fight drawn while I had it stopped, and once the drug tests proved my accusation valid, you and all his other fighters were confiscated. I was then able to purchase you from the ARC to bring you here."

            "But _why_?" Laura insisted. "Why me, and Derek and Cora? How..." she trailed off, looking helplessly between them all.

            "Ah," Stiles said. He let out his breath and took in another. "I was approached by an activist group a couple of years ago about starting a project with them. It involved signing a contract with the ARC to locate a suitable fighter and bring them through a certain number of fights in each of the top three Divisions. Completing the contract would allow me to remove the fighter to a sanctuary where they would have a measure of freedom."

            "That's me, Laura," Derek told her. She gave him a wide-eyed look, eyes tinting red and a noise of distress keening out of her. Pressing in close, Derek made soothing noises, stroking his hands over hers to calm her. "It's okay, it's okay... It's my choice."

            "I did give your brother a choice, when we met," Stiles assured her. "And he is free to step down at any time. I had originally planned to ask your sister, but she's young, and because we found Derek instead, I've been able to keep her out of the arena. I don't know how much longer that will be true, but at least for now she is safe."

            "Stiles can do the same for you," Derek said, giving Laura's hand another squeeze. The last thing he wanted was to see her back in the arena, knowing that she could relapse, knowing that he might lose her again so soon after finding her. "You won't have to fight."

            "Actually..." Stiles interjected. "That not true. Because she was young and unproven, I was able to register Cora as an on-hold first-time breeder, which means she was allowed to stay here for a period of time. I was supposed to be determining if she would be appropriate breeding stock, but that time limit just passed. I had to send in her fighting registration recently. Due to Laura's age, and the fact that she's been in the arena already, I have to register her as a fighter, too."

            Anger flared up inside of Derek. "There has to be something you can do," he insisted. His agitation was catching, and Laura shifted beside him, ready to jump into action if needed. Taking a deep breath, he calmed himself, knowing that the last thing any of them needed was to start a physical fight. "You'll _try_ , right?"

            "Of course," Stiles said quickly. "I don't want any of you in the arena more than you have to be, especially if it's going to be traumatic. But there are some situations in which my hands are tied, and I have to follow the rules. One of those is playing my game pieces by their schedule, and I've already pushed every limit with Cora."

            "It's fine," Laura choked out, grip tightening on Derek's hand. He could feel her claws starting to pop. "You kept Cora safe; that's more important. I'll fight."

            The words of the nymph echoed in Derek's mind: _We'd fight for you._

            Stiles watched her for a moment, and then nodded, gaze slipping up to meet Derek's. "Okay?" he asked.

            _Tell them there's hope_.

            He'd promised the other fighter hope. He had promised all of them, and though Derek wanted to argue, he merely clenched his jaw and nodded. He wanted to throw things and snarl and tear the world apart to keep Laura and Cora safe forever, but he knew that wasn't the solution here. Laura would have to fight and so would Cora, eventually. In this world, they didn't have a choice. Not yet.

            _Derek Hale fights for our freedom_.

            Something hot and fierce coiled up inside of him, a rage unmatched by anything he had experienced in the pit. His family deserved more than just a _choice_. They deserved a world where freedom wasn't just a vague possibility.

            _Is there going to be a fight?_

            Yes, he thought as he watched Stiles leave, felt the press of Laura's warm cheek against his shoulder. There would be a fight if he had anything to say about it.

 

* * *

_A copy of the [arena handler replacement] waiver_

_must be carried on the warden's person_

_for the duration of the match_

* * *

 

            Derek hesitated outside Stiles' door, listening to the soft _shff_ of him turning pages in his book, the rustle of his covers as he readjusted his position on the bed. There were a lot of things he needed to talk to Stiles about, things that had been sidelined in light of Laura's return or pushed aside due to new information. But in the end, he knew those were only excuses to avoid talking about what had gotten under his skin.

            If he was honest with himself, as much as he had been avoiding Stiles, he didn't actually want to be apart from the human. He hadn't wanted to leave Stiles alone. He hadn't wanted to give up the feel of Stiles' fingers on his skin, or the beat of his heart in Derek's ears as he fell asleep. It hurt every time they were in the same place, with everything they had been together just sitting between them. The way Stiles looked at him like there was something he wanted to say, and then didn't, was killing him.

            Steeling himself, Derek knocked on Stiles' door.

            "Come in," Stiles called after a moment of hesitation. He sounded exhausted, and Derek felt bad for showing up so late. Sometimes he forgot humans slept less than wolves.

            The door creaked as it opened. Derek poked his head around the edge of it, taking in the sight of Stiles, a book open in his lap, waiting for him. "Can we talk?"

            With a nod, Stiles closed the book, setting it aside so that he could scoot to make room for Derek on the edge of the bed. It was a small comfort to Derek that he was still welcome. He gingerly closed the door behind himself and then padded across the room, perching just on the edge of the mattress. It had been a long day for both of them, and he wouldn't be surprised if Stiles asked him to leave again after hearing what he wanted to talk about.

            "What's up?" Stiles prompted.

            "I've been avoiding you," Derek blurted out, all of the things he had planned to say slipping right through his fingers in light of actually sitting in front of Stiles. He scrubbed a hand down his face, feeling stupid now that he'd said it aloud.

            "I noticed," Stiles said. "Did I do something?"

            "You _didn't_ do something," Derek responded. "You didn't tell me that... what we were doing was- how dangerous it was, for us to be together." He felt like he was stumbling over every word, even though he had thought he had this planned out so well when he was debating walking over here. "At the sanctuary, you told me you wouldn't keep things from me."

            "I didn't keep this from you," Stiles said firmly. "You know it's dangerous, you've always known everything we do is dangerous, from fighting in the arena to walking around here without a collar."

            "This is different," Derek argued stubbornly.

           "It's not," Stiles interrupted with a shake of his head. "If they were to find out that you and I had sex, were having sex, then yes, Scott's right. They could discredit me, and kill you. But do you know what else they could do that over? The way I take Negira out of her pen. The way I let the others out for the full moon runs. The fact that I taught any of them to read and write, or that I talk to them _at all_. Keeping Cora out of the arena the way I that have- and that could get Deaton's license revoked as well, so that he'd never be able to get another job as a vet. Every time I bend a rule for any of them, or for you, we are taking that same risk. I can't tell you every time- we'd never get anywhere."

            Derek looked away, down to his hands folded in his lap, and swallowed thickly. A part of him knew that Stiles was right. "Okay," he admitted.

            "Derek," Stiles said, clearly not going to let him get away that easily. "Is that what this has been about? You thought I was keeping that from you? Why didn't you just say something?"

            "I was waiting for you!" Derek said plaintively.  "At the sanctuary, you promised not to keep things from me, and then..."

            Stiles sat back against the headboard, the beat of his heart speeding up and slowing down again. "I see," he said after a moment. "Seems like we both messed up this time. What do you want to do?"

            "I don't know," Derek said, heart twisting up into his throat. "There are a lot of people depending on me getting through the arena and to the sanctuary. I can't let them down after coming so far, but... I don't want to stop this either. Being with you."

            He didn't know how to express in words what he wanted to say, everything that he meant. How Stiles was the one thing he had selfishly taken just because he wanted him or how what he had with Stiles was one of the things that made all of the rest feel worth it. He didn't know how to tell Stiles that when he thought about dying, when he thought about his life bleeding out into the sands of an arena, he sometimes caught himself thinking that at least he'd had this. At least he'd had Stiles, who had brought him Cora and Laura and taught him that humans were not all bad and showed him that there were things worth fighting for in this world.

            Stiles, who was the first human to touch him as though he were made of something precious, instead of like a beast to be broken.

            "I don't want to lose you," he said quietly, and looked up to meet Stiles' eyes.

            "I don't want to lose you, either," Stiles echoed. He gave a little shake of his head, a helpless gesture. "But that's how this ends, isn't it?"

            "Yeah," Derek agreed, loathe to admit it. Of course it was. Either he finished the contract and left for the sanctuary, or he died trying. There was no middle ground, not anymore. "Sometimes I wish you'd just picked me up like the others, and I could have stayed. I could have been just another fighter in your stable."

            "You would never have been," Stiles told him fiercely, voice low, as he reached over to curl his hands atop Derek's. "You would never have been _just another_ anything, Derek. Not a year ago, not now, not even if there was never a contract or a sanctuary. You would always have been special."

            A ghost of a smile passed over Derek's lips and before he could say anything else, he scooted closer, releasing Stiles' hands in favor of brushing his fingertips under Stiles' jaw to draw him into a kiss. Warmth and relief washed through Derek like a balm at the contact. He could feel Stiles' desperation to close the chasm that had opened between them as he pressed closer. Derek shifted just enough to keep the kiss gentle, but not enough to break it.

            "I'm sorry," Stiles mumbled when he finally pulled back, long fingers resting at the nape of Derek's neck. "I should have made sure you knew, instead of assuming."

            "I'm sorry, too," Derek answered immediately. Stiles pulled back further to look at him, a little confused. "I was waiting for you to come and talk to me about this, but if I wanted to talk about it, I should have come to you. We should have had this talk... before... anything _happened_."

            Stiles' throat clicked as he swallowed, his heartbeat speeding up and Derek knew he was trying to steel himself to ask something. When he spoke, his voice was barely a breath. "But you- you don't regret it, do you? What happened?"

             A smile tugged at the corner of Derek's lips, and he pulled Stiles in for another sweet, brief kiss, a brush of their lips and nothing more. He let his forehead rest against Stiles'. "No," he said quietly. "And... I know that it- I understand that it's dangerous for us to do anything..."

            "They could do some bad things to me," Stiles said. "But that's not because of you, okay? Well, not _just_ because of you anyway."

            Derek made a noise of agreement, because he understood that now. "Seems like it's the same amount of danger if we're together or apart," he said quietly, drawing back enough to look Stiles in the eyes. "So, I guess there's not much reason to be apart."

            "Your sister," Stiles said. "At least, tonight," he amended. "You should probably be with her."

            "Cora kind of... chased me off," Derek admitted, not a little sheepishly. He didn't say how both girls had practically taken their claws out to insist Derek get some rest and leave them alone for a while to catch up in private. "That's why I'm here and not there. I'm... not allowed back until tomorrow morning."

            "Oh," Stiles said, sounding slightly anxious at the thought. Derek listened to the flutter of his heartbeat and smiled. "Do you- do you want to stay here tonight, then?"

            "I would like that," Derek said. He was glad humans couldn't see as well in the dark, so that Stiles couldn't see the pleased flush under his skin.

            With a happy sound, Stiles wriggled to the far side of the bed, practically whipping back the covers so that Derek could join him under them. Derek reached up to undo his collar, reflex after so much time, and then remembered he'd left it in his own room. He hadn't wanted to have this conversation with Stiles while wearing it. When he turned, he knew Stiles had seen the gesture.

            Instead of saying anything, Derek slipped his legs under the covers and scooted closer to Stiles as he laid down. Over the time he'd been here, beds had gotten more comfortable, even though he had yet to give up his den, the mess of mattress and blankets and clothing he slept in nightly. At least now he knew that he would be able to fall asleep at all in a bed.

            As soon as Derek was settled, Stiles stretched out beside him, not quite touching, like he wasn't sure what was okay anymore. Derek closed the distance between them, reaching his fingertips out to lay them against Stiles' belly. He liked the way the muscles contracted a little under his touch.

            "I missed you," he said softly.

            Stiles laid a hand over Derek's, pressing his palm flat, and smiled. "Yeah," he agreed. "Derek?"

            "Yeah?" Derek murmured, eyes on their joined hands.

            "I don't want this to come between us later," Stiles started, heartbeat speeding up in Derek's ears and under his touch. "This whole... thing with Laura, and the arena."

            Derek's stomach turned over at the reminder. He had been trying not to think about that. "I don't want to lose her again," he said quietly, eyes flicking up to meet Stiles'. "But I know you have to put her into the arena."

            "Yes," Stiles agreed, tone steady even though his heart was not.

            "And... if she goes feral again?" Derek said around the constriction in his throat, eyes dropping down once more. He couldn't lose her now- he'd _just_ gotten her back. Looking into her eyes and seeing only the void of a wild animal had been tearing him apart, and he couldn't imagine going back to that. Not with the memory of her recovery so fresh in his mind. Not with the hope he had been given. "How do you know she won't lose herself?"

            "I don't," Stiles said firmly. "But, I'm not going to just toss her in and let her try her luck, Derek. I wouldn't do that."

            At that, Derek looked up. "But you said..." he began.

            "I didn't want to give you any false hope," Stiles explained. "But after I left the clinic, I called Danny, to see what we could do. He told me his fiancé plays a Div 3 piece called a _kanima_. The creature is completely under his control- no surprises, no berserking. They've got better healing than even shifters do, sometimes even to the point of reanimation after death. They're nearly impossible to kill, which means they can only fight Div 3."

            "So... she's going to fight this thing?" Derek asked slowly. At least she couldn't kill anyone, but that didn't mean the stimulation of a fight wouldn't send her right back into her feral state.

            "Yes. Your sister can go into the arena knowing that she won't have to hurt anyone, and she won't be unduly injured. She just waits out the five minutes, and gives up first blood."

            "You'll lose the match," Derek pointed out, though he was already feeling better about Laura's prospects of getting out unscathed. "You'll lose money."

            "Yep," Stiles agreed without hesitation. "I'd rather lose the match and the cash than your sister, okay? She's more important."

            Warmth flushed into Derek's cheeks at the reassurance. It was exactly what he needed to hear in order to curl his fingers into Stiles' shirt and pull him in closer. Stiles let out a pleasant bubble of laughter and wriggled until he was practically draped over Derek, breath warm on his skin where Stiles' nose touched his shoulder.

            "I'm glad you're here," Stiles murmured, stifling a yawn.

            Derek smiled, hearing the things Stiles didn't say as well. "Me, too."

 

* * *

_Arena owners shall be responsible for ensuring_

_that the appropriate certification and registration of_

_all of Arena handlers under their supervision is kept current_

* * *

 

            She lay curled up in the very center of his nest, her long front legs stretched out until the tips of her paws flopped over the edge. Her hind legs were kicked out behind her, and even her long, fluffy tail was flopped lazily over one of them as if she couldn't be bothered to tuck it in neatly. He could feel her red eyes on him where he sat in the arm chair a few feet away, reading quietly to himself.

            _You fought today_. The words were accompanied by soft, grumbling noises, almost-yips that belonged more in the mouth of a puppy than a great she-wolf like Laura.

            "Yes," he said, glancing up.

            It hadn't been a rough fight, which Derek felt bad about thinking. Sirens were only as dangerous as their songs, even when they had the advantage of being in water. On land, their voices didn't carry the same, and well-timed howls could drown them out. In this case, the siren hadn't been prepared for a howl at all, and her first attempt at a song had been interrupted. She hadn't lasted long after her hesitation allowed him to get in close.

            The red of Laura's eyes disappeared, and she pulled her paws in closer to herself. He could hear her heart beating rapidly, could smell the fear in the air between them. He closed his book, and padded over to the nest, dropping in beside her.

            "Hey," he said softly. "It's okay. I'm fine."

            _I have to fight_.

            He stroked one hand down her coarse fur, comforting and sympathetic. "It won't be bad," he assured her. "Stiles has made sure that you won't be actually fighting, remember? It's just... like a game, you know? Like how we used to play fight."

            In the next moment, he _felt_ the way she fought her alpha shift, an instinctual reaction to danger, and it took a lot of resolve to keep his hand on her shoulder. She was terrified of going back. Derek could understand why- she had killed people, just as he had, but she had lost herself to it. She had given in to the urges of her wolf. Even now, he knew she felt more comfortable like this, with fur and teeth and claws, than she did as a raw, soft human.

            "Laura," he said gently, drawing her back to the present.

            Skin replaced her fur a moment later, and she curled up into a ball, wrapping her arms around her knees and burying her face. "I don't want to go back," she gasped out, voice ragged. "I can't put any more blood on the sand, Derek."

            "You don't have to," Derek said, chest tight. "Stiles said you can let the kanima blood you, and that'll be the end. It won't hurt you more than that."

            "You trust him?" she asked. It sounded so much like an accusation that Derek had to keep himself from hackling. "A human? You _know_ what they're like!"

            He wasn't going to argue. He did know what humans were like. Laura wasn't going to forgive Stiles the crimes of his people just because Derek was able to say _not all humans_ honestly. There was too much evidence to the contrary. "I know," he said instead.

            "I thought..." She trailed off, lifting her head to shake it helplessly. He could see tears in her eyes. "I held on to the hope that you'd gotten out after the fire. Or that maybe you were just... dead. Just _away_ from all of this. Safe."

            "I'm safe now," Derek reminded her. It wasn't exactly true, but he was safer here than anywhere else he could imagine except perhaps the sanctuary. They were both safer here.

            "He puts you back into the pit," she said, bitter, scathing. She'd had time now to learn what Derek was doing, what Stiles was asking of him. "You kill for him."

            "I kill for me," he replied, feeling a little ill that it was true. Stiles had given him a choice, and he had taken the path that lead to the blue of his eyes. "I choose to go back in, Laura. I'm fighting for our people, now."

            She snorted, looking away from him. "You're different than I remember, baby brother. When you came up against me," she said softly, shoulders dropping, "you... you were stronger than I was."

            "I think you would have beaten me if they hadn't stopped you," he said.

            "No, I mean-" She cut herself off, looking up to the ceiling as if she might find an answer there. "You came up against me, and you _refused_ to kill me. I was feral, just an animal, and somehow all you saw was family."

            "I couldn't kill you," Derek admitted. "I just couldn't. Feral or not, you're my sister."

            Her huff of laughter was cut short by a noise of distress. "I killed Uncle Peter," she blurted out, fresh tears leaping to her eyes. She put her head down again, curling tighter into herself so that her next words were muffled. "They put me in the pit with him, and he was already feral, and I killed him."

            "Laura..." Derek murmured. He crawled across the space between them, and unwound her from her ball, pulling her into his arms. She curled up again as soon as they were still, and seconds later he could feel her tears on his shirt. He knew better than to try to reach her with reason, so he just rocked gently and mumbled nonsense into her hair until she stopped shaking.

            When she struggled a little to push away from him, he let her, meeting her eyes as she looked at him. "I don't want that to be us," she whispered desperately. She sounded exhausted. "I didn't want to- I shouldn't have had to kill him. He was an alpha, _my_ alpha, with mom's spark, and I killed him to stay alive."

            He put his hands on either side of her face, gently cupping her jaw so that she couldn't look away. "You're alive," Derek told her firmly. "What happened in the past is in the past."

            "It's not," Laura told him, but she didn't try to break away from him. "We've both got to go back in. You're going to have to fight for your life, and you're going to have to take more lives. Just like me, and Peter, and Mom and Dad. I don't want that to be how you stay alive, Derek, but I can't keep you out of the pit. I can't save you."

            "I don't need saving," he reassured her, even if he wasn't sure that was entirely true. He hadn't faced anything in Division 1 yet. Leaning forward, he pressed a kiss to the top of her head, and then rested his forehead against hers, letting his fingers slip down to the back of her neck. "I can save myself."

            "I can help," she said quietly, reaching up to wrap her fingers around his wrist, just touching. "I can give you some protection, if you let me."

            He began to draw back, but she tightened her grip and he remained where he was. "Laura," he said, almost a warning, but she didn't give.

            "Please," she said. "Close your eyes."

            Obediently, he closed his eyes. She shifted, bringing up her other hand so that her fingers touched the nape of his neck. The hairs there all rose, but Derek didn't have time to react before her claws slipped through his skin. He flinched at the unexpected pain, but held still as memories and feelings flooded through him.

            He caught just glimpses of it all- his mother's face, his father's laugh, Cora making faces as a child. The heat of the fire on his pelt. The cold of an underground pen, wet and unkempt. A voice he didn't recognize, followed by another. A cold pit of dread in his belly and a flash of Peter's face and the feel of life bleeding out under his claws.

            And then it hit, the surge of power Laura felt when their mother's spark found her, when it was wrenched violently from Peter and sought solace within Laura.

            With a sick, harsh twist, he realized that it wasn't just _memory_.

            Laura was passing him the alpha spark she harbored.

            She was making him their alpha.

            "Hold still," she growled at him, though he could barely hear past the ringing in his ears.

            Power burned over all his nerves, lighting him up from the inside like his bones had been electrified, the spark clawing around inside his chest as it carved out a new home. He could feel the shift, could feel it tearing at him, howling and screaming and shredding to be released. He tamped down on the urge, kept his fingers soft and human, until the urge settled, surrendered. Until he was master.

            Laura withdrew her talons and he fell forward, panting, covered in sweat. She caught him with a small laugh, rolling him off of her so that he had to catch himself. "You did it, you big baby," she told him.

            "It turned you feral," Derek rasped out, flopping onto his back and gulping in air. "The spark and the fear and the blood."

            "Yeah," she admitted. "I wasn't ready, and when the power hit... it tested me. There was no one to mitigate when it tested me. It won. I don't remember much after that. By the next fight..." She shook her head as if she could shake away the past. "But... when I heard you singing, it gave me something to hang onto. Memories to use as an anchor."

            Derek didn't know what to make of that, so he just lay there panting for another few moments. He could still feel the power sliding beneath his skin, ready to jump to his command, ready to give him everything he asked. It was heady, enticing.

            Beside him, he felt Laura's presence as if she were a part of him, even more so than when she had been alpha. He knew where she was, and, he realized with some amount of amazement, he knew where Cora was as well. Wherever they were, he knew he would be able to find them.

            "Thank you," he breathed out.

            Laura made a noise of agreement, and let herself slip back into her wolf form. She put her back to Derek's already too-warm side and rested her head on her paws, clearly intending to sleep right there with him that night. Derek found, as he closed his eyes and settled in with her, that he didn't mind at all.

 

* * *

  _The ARC shall be responsible for investigating_

_any mistreatment claims to the best of its ability_

* * *

 

            The black marks, though fewer on these copies of the arena records, were starting to blur together as Stiles skimmed them. He dragged his eyes off of the papers and pushed some of his now-soggy waffle around on his plate. The too-sweet smell of syrup wafted into the air, and Stiles set his fork down.

            It was too early to be functional, he decided.

            He scrubbed his hands over his face and then put one palm against his glass of orange juice, even though he didn't lift it to drink. He'd been up late the night before talking to Scott and reading the newest reports he had sent until he had completely lost track of time. When he found himself unable to sleep afterward, he just gave up and came downstairs.

            Luckily, Harvelle was awake and in a good mood, and he had started making waffles upon Stiles' request. Stiles perched on a kitchen stool that spun around, and as he spun, he chattered sleepily at Harvelle, enjoying the way the kitchen came to life with delicious scents. Eventually, Harvelle had shoved a plate into his chest and told him to _please go sit down, sir_.

            Stiles slowly pushed his plate toward the middle of the table, making room for him to put his cheek on the cool tabletop. The papers lay in a scrambled pile next to his face, and he tried to read them sideways, like maybe some new information might be gleaned from a change in perspective. The thought made him smile, which distorted his view, and made him smile more.

            Then his eyes fell upon a date on one of the papers, half buried in the short stack, and he practically felt his brain do a slow, solid click-whirrrrr.

            He sat up, using one hand to scoot away the papers on top of the one he wanted and the other hand to lift it from the table. Something important was struggling around in the goo of his early-morning memory, and he grasped futilely at it for a few moments before he understood why the date was important.

            _Southern Ridgeback_ , said the species information box.

            This wasn't one of Talia's papers. One of the ways they had started to seek information was to pull up the documents that were kept for her opponents instead. This one was from one of her Division 1 fights, against a Southern Ridgeback. It was a fight she had won, even though the odds of a humanoid shifter beating a fully mature Ridgeback dragon were astronomically small. Stiles' eyes traced to the bottom of the sheet, to the red lettering that began with _disqualified due to_ and ended in a long black streak.

            He looked back at the date, the bottom dropping out of his stomach.

            He _knew_ that date.

            It was the date a Southern Ridgeback clutch-mother had been killed, the day her warden had been arrested for illegally fighting a broody dragon. It was the day her fresh-laid clutch was surrendered to his father's station as evidence.

            It was just _days_ before his dad had brought home Negira's egg.

            Footsteps in the hallway dragged his attention away from the papers, his mouth slightly agape. A second later, Derek arrived and threw a worried glance around the dining room. "Are you okay?" he asked urgently.

            "Good morning," Stiles responded automatically, even though the response made no sense.

            "Stiles?" Derek asked, more insistently this time. "What's wrong?"

            Stiles squinted a little, and then shook his head to clear it. "Uh... nothing. Nothing," he repeated, setting down the paper and smearing it into the pile with the rest. "I was just reading about your mom's fights."

           That seemed to draw Derek up short. "Oh," he said as Laura trailed hesitantly up behind him. Derek gave her a smile, moving just enough to allow her the space to get into the dining room if she wanted, but not enough to take away her shield. "So... how's that going?"

            "It's... going," he said. That was honest enough, he thought. The door behind him burst open, the sounds of the kitchen rattling into the room so loudly that everyone turned to look.

            Cora stood in the open doorway, platters of food balanced on each hand. "Food," she said, as if that were all the explanation needed.

            "Thank you," Derek said.

            Stiles watched as he lead Laura into the room and let her choose where she wanted to sit. She watched Stiles; even when she glanced away to scoot her chair in he could tell her attention was on him. He knew he should be getting used to the feeling by now - he had gone through it with both Derek and Cora after all - but it still stung a little.

            "How are you feeling?" Stiles asked quietly, eyes not quite on Laura. He didn't want to challenge her, or make her feel like she was prey he was watching.

            She glanced over, but dropped her gaze immediately. "I'm okay," she said, clipped and breathy.

            Stiles pursed his lips a little and looked to Derek, who just shrugged as if it couldn't be helped.

            "That's good," Stiles said instead of inquiring further. He still felt like he'd just been run over by the clue bus, with his realization about Negira, and he wasn't feeling up to pushing Laura if she didn't want to be pushed. "I should-" he stood up more abruptly than he'd intended, startling everyone at the table including himself, and almost knocking over his own chair in the process.

            "Is something wrong?" Derek asked, brow furrowing as he watched Stiles begin to shuffle his papers into a semi-neat stack.

            "No," Stiles said, and all the wolves looked at him then. He rolled his eyes a little. "Nothing major... I think. I hope," he added as he looked at the papers. The ridgeback documents had ended up on top. "I don't want to jump to any conclusions."

            "About our mother?" Cora asked, head tipped a little.

            "No," Stiles said quickly. "Well, not exactly. About someone she may have fought, in Division 1. I gotta get some more information before I feel comfortable making any declarations."

            "If there's anything we can do, let us know," Derek offered. Stiles shot him a grateful smile.

            "I will." With that, he practically bolted from the dining room, heading for the basement area. He didn't want any of the wolves overhearing his conversation, and the only place to ensure that was the soundproof music room.

            He didn't often lock doors, but when he had settled the papers onto the desk, he went back to do so this time. After picking up the receiver, he took a seat in one of the soft armchairs and just held the little device in both his hands. He knew he had to make the call, and he knew his dad would be home because he worked night shifts on Fridays, which meant he was always home Saturday mornings.

            The thing was, he couldn't decide which answer he wanted.

            He wasn't sure he wanted an answer at all.

            He dialed the phone, and held it to his ear.

            A few moments later, his father picked up. "Stiles?" he asked blearily. "What's wrong?"

            Stiles looked at the digital clock near the door, and winced. "Nothing, Dad," he said, even though that was a lie. He never called this early unless something was wrong.

            "You don't call before 7am unless there is an apocalypse," his dad pointed out as if reading his mind, not willing to let him get away with any bullshit as per usual. "So?"

          Flopping back into the armchair, Stiles let out a heavy sigh. "Okay, well, you know how I have that new game piece? The wolf from the Hale line?"

            The split-second of silence was too stiff, too full of meaning, to be a coincidence. He couldn't believe he hadn't recognized his father knew something, in all the times they'd talked about this. "Yes," his dad said. "You've mentioned it."

            "And I mentioned that we've been looking into Talia Hale's matches?" he prompted. A part of him hoped his father would just decide to _tell him_ if he dropped enough hints, but he knew better.

            "You did," his father agreed. "Did you find something new?"

            "Her second Division 1 fight was against a southern ridgeback, like Negira," Stiles said. "And she won. But what's weird is that... the ridgeback was technically not qualified for the match, as she'd recently laid a clutch of eggs. She'd gotten put in because the brood-hormone laws were so new."

            "Okay," his father said, clearly waiting for him to get to the point.

            "Dad!" Stiles insisted. "That dragon died _days_ before you brought Negira's egg home. You said you'd won it in a lottery draw, after the mother had been killed. Don't make me ask."

            "Okay, yes," came the response. He could hear his dad sigh, knew the way he would scrub his hand through his hair. "Your dragon's egg was a part of that clutch. Why?"

            Stiles' eyes closed and he held the phone away from his ear for a moment, trying to figure out exactly what he was going to say, how much he was going to give away over the phone.

            _Because I'm in love with the son of the woman who killed my baby girl's mother. Because my lover's mother is the reason I got to where I am in life. Because apparently there's no such thing as coincidence in my life. Because I don't know how I'm going to tell Derek, or Negira_. _Because I don't know what this is going to change._

            Finally, he cradled the receiver on his shoulder and said quietly: "Because it's important, Dad. Really, a lot important."

            "I see," his father said slowly. "You know, I haven't visited in a while. Maybe it's about time I took a break and came out to see you and Negira?"

            "Yeah," Stiles managed, sitting up a little. "Yeah, that would be great."

            A chance to talk to his father in person would be perfect, he thought as they began to hash out the details of a visit. He could introduce him to Derek and explain everything. It would be good, he told himself. He hoped so, anyway.

 

* * *

_The hosting arena shall be responsible_

_for reimbursing a warden upon the death of any_

_winning game piece which the arena insures_

* * *

 

            The glow of the LEDs along the floor lit everything in the barn a pale, sickly blue as Derek moved quietly through the side corridor. He hadn't wanted to use the main doors, because they made so much extra noise and he could hear the heartbeats of the creatures sleeping inside. He didn't want to disturb them, he just... Stiles' words were still rattling around his head, and he needed to see her.

            The daughter his mother's claws had orphaned.

            The other soul in Stiles' stable that had been left without a mother because someone had wanted to fight for freedom.

            At the center of Negira's pen, next to the human-sized door, Derek drew to a stop and peered into the darkness. The floor lamps gave him enough light to see, but Negira was so black that she practically became a shadow, herself.

            Only the glow of her red eyes was visible, a match to his own now.

            She sat coiled a few feet from the fencing, the beat of her hearts steady and even as she watched him. Unlike the first few times he had encountered her, she knew him now. She had no desire to kill him, and Stiles was not here for her to protect. In fact, Derek was fairly certain that if something came after him here, Negira would protect _Derek_ at this point.

            "Hey, girl," he murmured, fingers curling in the thick fencing. He let his forehead rest against the cool metal. It was supposed to be electrified, but it never was unless there was someone inspecting.

            At the sound of his voice, she picked up her head, blinking slowly at him, and began to uncoil. He didn't move, not even to lift his head, until she was seated, her long tail curled over her paws as she looked down at him curiously. He wondered what it would be like to face her in the pit, to see those huge claws aimed at him, to hear the snap of her jaw, the crack of her wings, the slash of her tail against the sand.

            He wondered how his mother had ever brought herself to kill such a magnificent, powerful beast.

            "I'm sorry," he choked out, trying to swallow down his sorrow at the thought. It should never have happened, but he didn't know how to tell Negira that. Their mothers should never have been pitted against one another. Both of them should be alive now.

            She made a sympathetic noise, and he watched as she seemed to almost flow to her feet. One stride ate the ground between them, and then she was standing up against the grating, her head bowed so that her eyes were level with his.

            Tentatively, Derek wiggled one hand through the fencing, and laid it gently on the tip of her snout. The bone-like beak at the tip was warm, warmer than he expected, and covered in tough, scarred skin. It might have been soft, once, he thought. Maybe it still would have been, if she hadn't been through so many rough fights. Her breath wuffed over him, hot and dry as she snorted.

            "Stiles told me tonight that... my mother fought yours." He gave a little shake of his head, and he wasn't imagining the comforting way she pressed into his palm, as if encouraging him to continue. "That's how you ended up here, girl. My mom killed yours."

            He stroked a thumb over the tip of her snout, and she hummed her appreciation of the gesture, staring at him.

            "It's stupid," he mumbled, throat tight with a grief he thought he'd long gotten over. He missed his mother. He missed her soft hands stroking his hair, her sweet voice singing lullabies to him and his siblings. He missed the glow of her eyes and the sheen of her pelt and the melody of her laugh. "They're both dead now, and for what? That nymph was right... 'round and 'round the Ourouboros goes, and where does it end? In blood. In death."

            _It ends in a beginning._

            Derek startled so hard his wrist banged painfully against the fence, but Negira didn't flinch at all from where she sat. He blinked, looking around owlishly for who had spoken, but he found no one. The hearts he had listened for before entering were all still beating the even lub-dub of sleep. With wide eyes, he turned back to Negira, rubbing at his wrist as it healed.

            "That was you," he said, not sure if it was a question or a declaration. "You can speak now."

            _I could always speak. Now, you can hear, Alpha._

            Realization dawned, and he pressed one hand to his chest. He could feel the power beneath his skin still, waiting to be used. Apparently it had more functions than just allowing him a new shift form. "Oh," he said, not as intelligently as he had hoped. "What did you mean, 'it ends in a beginning'?"

            _That is the nature of the orouboros. It ends where it begins._ She clacked her snout against the fencing, looking into his eyes through the holes. _The world serpent, the orouboros Jörmungandr, is said to have the whole world in its coils. It is not to squeeze the life from us, Wolf, but to hold us in place. When it releases its tail and uncoils, and the cycle ends, so too does the world. But what is the end of one thing, if not the beginning of another? The night must end before day can begin._

            Derek let that sink in for a moment, wondering where she had learned such mythology. Maybe Stiles had read her books as a hatchling. Maybe dragons just _knew things_. Maybe she spoke to others in the holding pens, just like he did.

            Then her words dawned upon him, and he stood up straighter, belly sinking with fear. Of course Stiles and his fellows wanted to break the system, disrupt the way the ARC ran the arenas by allowing some supers to slip through their fingers and into semi-freedom... but that wasn't what Derek wanted, or not _all_ that Derek wanted. He wanted to break the cycle. He wanted to free his people, to free _all_ of the people being subjected to the arena. Humanoid and non-humanoid supernatural creatures... they all deserved freedom.

            But that freedom meant throwing the established world into disarray. Into chaos. It meant disrupting everything that the humans had become so accustomed to- it meant an end to the world as they knew it, and the beginning of a brand new world with new rules.

            It had to end before it could begin.

            _Your ancestor, Fenrir, Devourer-of-Odin, is kin to Jörmungandr,_ Negira told him, sitting up again to look down at him. _Children of chaos and sorrow; one a world-ender, one a god-killer._ Here she paused, and tipped her head. _It is no mistake you are here, Wolf. My mother wanted my freedom as much as your mother wanted yours. Together they have given us that path._

            Derek found he couldn't breathe past the lump in his throat, and so he just closed the distance to the fence, pressing his forehead to the metal once more. She leaned forward, enough to put her own forehead up against his, much larger and warmer. The sound of her heartbeats, this close, was like thunder.

            She was right.

            She was _right_ , was all he could think.

            His mother had killed hers, and that had brought her to Stiles, had given him a way to begin playing the games. Negira had grown into one of the smartest and strongest fighters anywhere, giving Stiles everything he needed to be found by the advocate group. The fact that Talia had accepted the contract to get to the sanctuary the first time meant that her bloodline was the one Stiles would seek, years after her death. It meant that Derek was the one, had always been the one, Stiles was going to find.

            "Thank you," he murmured to the dragon.

            _Do not thank me, Blood-of-Fenrir,_ she answered. _Slay the god that has us bound._

            "I will," Derek vowed.

 

* * *

_Outdoor arenas allowing flight-capable_

_game pieces must be equipped with_

_appropriate repellent energy fields_

* * *

 

             For once, Derek was first on the sands. The crowd was still settling in for the day's events, not screaming and shaking the arena as they usually were when he stepped out of his holding pen. There would only be Division 2 fights today, and only three of them, so the crowd had not been riled up by seeing the Division 3 fights before his, nor were they as rowdy as crowds awaiting Division 1 matches. Stiles had chosen one of the smaller venues this time, and Derek suspected that even at top volume these people would not come close to some of the crowds he had seen.

            He let his gaze drop from them to across the pit, where a creature had moved into the light and was heading slowly toward him. It was smaller than Derek, though not by much, with rough, dark-green patches of scales that looked as if they were growing in around old scars. It blinked at Derek with two pairs of misshapen, sallow eyes over an uneven, toothy grin. Behind it lashed a short, whippy tail.

            Demons were uncommon in the main arenas. As Stiles explained it to him, there were the main five Divisions, but some creatures were not suited to fighting on sand or in enclosed spaces. There were specialized arenas around the country for the Aquatics Division, the Aerial Division, and the Phase Division- the last of which was where demons normally fought after their full conversion.

            This one, Stiles told him as they were preparing, was still in conversion. The scarring and scaling was still forming, and the ridge of spines rising on its back was not yet producing the neurotoxic venom of its kind. Its claws were sharp but short, not quite hooked, on both its hands and feet. It gave a little snarl at him as it approached, and Derek could hear the way its vocal chords were still in transition.

            Of all the creatures in the arena, Derek felt the least remorse facing a demon. They were not intelligent beings; they were parasites. They were a scourge on humans and supers alike, taking possession of a body that was not their own, insinuating their energy into every cell, bit by bit, until they could take solid form. This one, Derek thought, might have been a cat shifter once.

            He loosed a snarl of his own, letting himself hunch forward, and letting his alpha shift take him. Black fur covered his body, his face lengthening into proper jaws, his ears bending and twisting out into sharp points. Sharper than knives, his fangs descended and his claws burst from his fingertips almost painfully fast. Between one heartbeat and the next, he had gone from being almost human to being a hulking, terrifying alpha werewolf.

            With a roar, he slammed both clawed hands into the sand in threat, and then charged at the demon. Just beneath his skin, he could feel the raw _power_ of this form, of his shift, and he knew that the fight would be short. He would take this creature apart, let its blood stain the sands beneath them, feel the life leave it. The knowledge thundered inside of him, howling inside his skull until it drowned out all other noise, all other thought.

            The creature did not back down; it met him halfway, an other-worldly shriek tearing from its throat as it leapt upon him, stubby claws raking huge gashes down his shoulders and chest. He practically bowled it over with the force of his impact, long teeth sinking into its shoulder as he pinned it to the ground.

            Before he could rip away, taking the thing's arm with him, he realized it had brought up its hind legs, curling almost into a ball. As it tensed to make its move, he released it and threw himself backward, narrowly avoiding being disemboweled as it kicked its legs down where his belly had just been.

            _Cat_ , his mind supplied sluggishly as he circled around it, looking for a new angle. That was how they killed large prey- not with their claws or teeth, but with their hind feet, raking open the belly and letting time become their champion. It righted itself with a twisting wriggle, and then stood its ground, ready for him again.

            Around and above them, the crowd had become an avalanche of noise, rumbling and crashing and cheering. Derek stood up so that he towered over the creature, and let loose a challenging howl that drown out all their noise, shook the sand beneath them. Before him, the demon shrieked, shrill and piercing, and launched itself at him.

            With one paw, he smacked it aside, into one of the four pillars that held up the thick chain roofing. He dropped to all fours, stalking toward it again, jaws open, oozing, black, demon blood dripping around his teeth. There was a noise in his ear, something which broke through all the rest of it, but he couldn't place what it was.

            When he reached it, the demon was struggling to its feet, winded and bruised, but alive. It snarled at Derek, but Derek snarled back louder, bounding the last few steps in one leap to slam both clawed hands into the thing's chest, pinning it to the sands. It writhed beneath the crushing pressure, and he could feel life slipping from it with every breath it failed to take.

            That noise, in his ear again. He shook his head to clear it, but it persisted.

            He pressed harder, relishing the crack of bone under his paws, and the demon flailed, trying futilely to gasp in air as it scrabbled ineffectually at his arms.

            _Derek_

            His lips peeled away from his fangs at the noise. It didn't belong here.

            "Derek!"

            The demon flagged, eyes rolling around without focus as unconsciousness began to take it. A mortal body had its disadvantages.

            "Derek, stop."

            He eased up on the pressure, without understanding why, obedient to those words on instinct. His chest was heaving as he panted, releasing the demon and taking a step backward, head spinning. It felt like _he_ had been the one choking, dying.

            "Derek, can you hear me?"

            There was something familiar here. The noise was different than the noise above and around him, different than the demon making horrible, pained noises in front of him. Different than the sound of his own thoughts, even though it felt as though the voice were in his own head.

            He snarled, threateningly, but it did not go away.

            "Derek, I need you to walk away from that demon," it said instead. "You have to wait five minutes before you can end the match, Derek."

            _Derek_. He knew that sound. He knew that sound said a hundred different ways by a dozen different people. That sound belonged to him.

            He watched the demon roll over, listened to its labored, rough breathing, the hacking, gurgling coughs. He had broken its ribs, maybe punctured a lung. It would not survive.

            "Derek, walk away from it."

            Another halting, resistant step backward, and he fell still, breath gulping in and out of him at the effort. Something was _wrong_. Something had happened.

            "Please say something," the voice pleaded, ragged and not a little desperate as the calm facade cracked.

            "Stiles." The word scraped off his tongue, the first that came to his mind, and the world around him _sharpened_. He stumbled backward, heart rate rocketing upward and vision blackening.

            "Yeah," Stiles said in his ear. "What _was_ that? Are you okay? You almost killed it in the first two minutes of the fight- you'd have been disqualified."

            He didn't know what to say, but he knew that Stiles would be upset if he stopped communicating again. "I don't know," he blurted, bewildered. "I don't know what happened. I don't know what..."

            He trailed off, _-what came over me_ on the tip of his tongue, when he realized what _had_ come over him. He had let the alpha power take too much control. He had let in the raw, feral desires it carried with it, and they had taken over. He had brushed hides with becoming as feral as Laura had been, and the thought made his blood run cold.

            "I was feral," he breathed, chest tight. "I was going feral."

            There was silence on the other end. Derek wondered if Stiles had known, if he had guessed what was happening. He wondered if Stiles had been as scared of losing him as he had been of losing Laura. The thought pulled all the breath from his lungs, made him dizzy and sick.

            "You're not," Stiles managed after a moment, but his voice had gone funny, thick and strained. "You're fine."

            "I'm fine," Derek repeated, tamping down on the power of his alpha shift, forcing himself back into beta shift. He was smaller, more human than wolf now, but still powerful. More then enough to finish off one half-crushed demon. "Stiles, I'm fine. How much time do I have left?"

            There was a pause, and then: "Less than a minute, now."

            He swallowed, and dropped back to all fours, still shaking as he began slinking closer to the demon. It eyed him warily, but he could tell it was not recovered. When he made a short, sharp movement, it reacted with delay, wincing in pain as it batted out a clawed paw to stop him even though he was still too far to actually touch it.

            "Thirty seconds," Stiles said in his ear.

            Derek counted them down as he circled the wounded demon.

            _Thirty, twenty nine_

            He feigned a charge and the crowd roared, thinking he was going for the death blow, and the demon heaved itself up onto its hind feet, claws lashing. They missed Derek by inches, and he backed off again.

            "Twenty seconds," Stiles counted aloud for him.

            He saw the creature dig claws into the sand, knew it planned to fling the gritty material at him as a last ditch effort. As he attacked, he closed his eyes. The soil hit him with a spatter, tiny bits clinging to him as he hit the demon head on. It wailed, twisting to get out of his grasp.

            "Ten seconds," Stiles told him.

            A sick crunch filled his ears as he dug claws into the thing's ribs, through cartilage and bone, reaching for organs. Reaching for its heart. He felt its paws on his belly, ready to eviscerate him as it had failed to do the first time. In a quick move, he bowed his back, jaws slacking open so that his teeth could find the demon's throat.

            A bell rang a neutral, dull tone over the noise of the crowd, signaling that it had been five minutes.

            The required match time was up.

            Derek felt the claws sinking into his belly, and he knew what came next. Tightening the grip of his hands, he released the creature's throat and let it kick out with its hind legs. The motion pushed it roughly away from Derek, exactly like he had counted on, pulling Derek's hands from its chest and leaving bleeding rends in his abdomen.

            The motion also left the creature's still-beating heart clutched in one of Derek's hands.

            The creature fell to the ground, lifeless, and the crowd erupted into applause.

           

* * *

_Arena veterinary clinics are expected to_

_employ veterinarians capable of treating_

_both humanoids and non-humanoids_

* * *

 

            Derek's wounds, stitched together by the on-site vets, had sealed closed and scarred up by the time they were halfway home. He sat in the trailer of the transport truck, shifting slightly with the rock and sway of the truck as it barreled down the road. Isaac was at the wheel with Erica in the passenger seat and Boyd guarding the rear exit from the in-trailer cabin. It wasn't like they expected Derek to try to escape, but someone had to be there in case they got pulled over for an inspection.

            Though he could have ridden with Stiles, he needed the space to be alone for a little bit after the arena. He'd clambered into the truck before anyone could start a debate, and retreated to the farthest reaches of it. Without another word, Stiles had left, and Boyd had closed the door. Derek waited a few beats to see if Boyd would approach him, but when he merely settled himself into the comfortable chair at the back, Derek had pulled on the loose sweat pants and t-shirt that had been left for him, and curled up in a corner.

            It didn't feel any safer. He wasn't in the pit anymore, but he didn't feel _safe_.

            In the dark and the silence, he just kept thinking, over and over, that it had been so _easy_. He had thought it would feel like a threshold, going feral. He had thought it would feel _different_ somehow, something that he could feel coming on, something he could resist like feeling hungry and deciding not to eat, but he hadn't felt anything. He hadn't even seen a line to know he was crossing it.

            The thought rattled him right down to his core. He couldn't fathom how he could fight going feral if he couldn't even tell when it was happening. No wonder Laura had lost herself, after killing Peter, after the chemicals began to alter her. No wonder Laura had gone feral, with no one to pull her back from the brink.

            Derek closed his eyes.

            It had been Stiles' voice, his _insistence_ , that had brought Derek back.

            He shuddered to think what might have happened otherwise.

            Gently, he touched fingertips to the soft, healing scars on his belly. By the time the truck pulled to a stop, they would be nearly gone, just faint discolorations. Alpha healing was incredibly superior, he found himself thinking. The injuries the demon gave to him would have taken days to heal normally. He let his head fall back against the metal side.

            Things were changing too fast now. The fight with the demon had been _easy_ now that he was an alpha, but it was only easy because Derek had fought with the wild instinct of a feral wolf, because he had allowed the power too much control. He couldn't risk that in the rest of his fights; and there were only three more in Division 2 before he really had to start worrying about power.

            He knew that Division 1 was going to be no joke. He wasn't sure that humanoids survived more than one Division 1 fight; those that did tended to be noticed, like his mother had been. And like his mother, they tended to disappear. He couldn't afford that, not with how many people were counting on him. Not with the words both the nymph and Negira had spoken to him lapping around in his head.

            _Revolution_.

            In quiet moments like this, the word murmured inside his head, an enticing promise. The nymph had been right; fighting to continue fighting was not the solution. Negira had told him to bring down the gods, destroy the ARC. He had no idea how to stop the orouboros of the arena, or how to destroy the gods running it, but learning to control himself was where it must begin.

            Even as he thought it, the truck began to slow, and Derek felt the vehicle lean to the side as it rolled off the highway and onto the back roads. He got up, stretching, and peeked around the edge of the pen to see Boyd. The handler had fallen asleep and was snoring quietly from the armchair, jaw slack. Derek smiled a little, trying not to wonder what would happen to all the humans tied up with the arena, if it were to fall apart.

            The wardens and the handlers and the vets and the arena folk... they had reasons to keep this going. Derek knew that Stiles was willing to give up a lot of what he had, but he wasn't so sure about the rest of humanity. The arena was life for some of them. It was how they made money to do all the human things they did. There was nothing to offer them on the other side of this; they would lose what they had, and Derek knew from experience that humans were often sore losers.

            There was nothing he could do about that now, so he just pushed the thoughts to the back of his head and leaned against the pen door. The truck made a slow, heavy turn and began to crawl up the drive to the house. The rumbling of the gravel drive woke Boyd, who tossed a sleepy glance his way, and then covered a yawn.

            "Home?" Boyd asked, not bothering to raise his voice. Derek nodded instead of trying to be heard over the noise.

            After a few moments, the truck puttered to a stop and the engine grumbled and then fell silent. Boyd scrubbed at one eye with a knuckle, and then popped the back of the trailer open. He glanced again to Derek, who nodded for him to go ahead, and then Boyd disappeared from view, calling to Isaac and Erica so he could join them.

            Though he considered going with them, Derek ended up just sitting on the edge of the trailer, his feet dangling and his hands grasping the cool metal to either side of his thighs. After a few minutes the sound of human chatter died away and Derek caught the sound of Stiles' Jeep rumbling down the road. The headlights flashed as he turned into the drive, and then cut out so they would not hit the barn.

            Derek watched as he got out, listened to the far away grumble of Stiles' voice as he complained about paperwork to himself. The garage door shut more forcefully than usual, and Derek waited in silence until it opened again. He let a small smile grace his lips as Stiles walked across the expanse of lawn, having discovered Derek wasn't in the house yet. Derek didn't move as Stiles approached, just waited for him.

            "Hey," he said when Stiles got close enough to hear him.

            "Hey," Stiles replied, slowing his pace much farther away than Derek had expected. Derek caught the scent of apprehension on the breeze.

            "I'm not feral," Derek told him, a little more bitterly than he'd intended. He didn't like being approached as though he were a wild animal, especially not by Stiles.

            "I know," Stiles said, and Derek heard no lie in the words. "You said you wanted space. You didn't come in with Boyd. I wasn't sure you'd want me-"

            "I want you," spilled out of Derek's mouth before Stiles could even finish the sentence. Derek was surprised at the heat that flushed under his skin when he said the words aloud, and he slithered off the edge of the truck. "I want you," he repeated, softer as he closed the distance between them in two strides.

            Stiles didn't pull away when he reached him, and he didn't resist when Derek kissed him, fingers light on Stiles' jaw. "Derek," Stiles said when Derek pulled away. It sounded like a chastisement. "Are you okay? Really okay?"

            Derek nuzzled into the line of Stiles' jaw. "I'm okay," he murmured against Stiles' skin. He felt okay. Despite everything which was weighing on him, he _did_ feel better - not okay, not entirely, but _better_ \- just being this close to Stiles again. More centered, focused, the buzz of power receding so that Derek could easily feel he was anchored to this side of himself. "I'll be okay," he amended.

            He felt the moment Stiles relaxed into his touch, let him pull him close, back toward the truck. Stiles' lips were warm on his as Derek crowded him up against the back of the trailer. One hand cradling Stiles' jaw, one hand slipping under his white suit coat to brush over the silky undershirt.

            Under the burn of arousal, Derek could feel the hum of _power_ in his blood as he kissed Stiles. This wasn't unmitigated like the arena; this time, though it was slippery, it was under his control. The small noise Stiles made when Derek's hand moved to his hip was nothing short of soothing, intoxicating. The feel of Stiles' hands slipping under the loose fabric of Derek's shirt felt grounding, and he pressed in closer until Stiles laughed and pushed at his shoulders.

            "Hey, hey," Stiles soothed as Derek nipped at the curve of his throat. "What's gotten into you? I'm not going anywhere."

            As soon as Stiles said it, Derek recognized the desperation tugging at him, the pressing need for the comfort of closeness. He let out a breath, falling still, both his hands under Stiles' rucked-up shirt. "Is it not okay?" Although he was afraid of the answer, he needed to know.

            "It's fine," Stiles said, fingers under Derek's jaw until he tipped his head to look him in the eyes. "You just seem a little..."

            "Desperate?" Derek breathed, with a small ironic smile. "Do you know what an anchor is?"

            Stiles hesitated, clearly thinking about it, and then: "For you? I mean, werewolves?" he asked slowly. "Isn't it, like, how you change?"

            Derek let out a breathy chuckle. "Kind of. It's... how we change _back_ ," he corrected. "When we change, when we're wild with the shift, when the moon is calling for us on the full moon, we use our anchor to keep true to ourselves. Some wolves use an emotion, some use a place, some... some use a person. We follow our anchors back to ourselves."

            "Is that what you did, at your match?" Stiles guessed quietly.

            "Yeah," Derek agreed. "But it's not just... our anchors are something that comforts us, grounds us, reminds us who we are. And during that fight... it was you, Stiles."

            "Me?" Stiles echoed.

            "I was out of my mind, I was going to kill that demon without any regard for rules, without any thought for what it would mean for the contract," Derek told him. "Then I heard your voice, and it reminded me. I remembered who I was. You did that."

            The last three words wobbled a little, and Derek pressed in close to Stiles, nosing at his cheek, the line of his jaw, the soft skin of his throat. Stiles let him, tipping his head back a little. Derek set dull human teeth against the pulse of his heart, a low shudder rippling through him when Stiles flexed into it.

            "So when I say that I want you," he murmured against Stiles' collarbone, "I want you to know what I mean. That I want you- you and the comfort I feel from being close to you, the reassurance that I am not going feral, that I am anchored right here with you in reality. That I am not losing myself to anything I don't choose."

            "Okay," Stiles said, accepting the admission, hands on Derek's chest. "I think I can handle being that, if you need. But Derek?"

            "Yeah?" Derek asked, letting Stiles pull his chin up so that their eyes met.

            "Can we maybe reaffirm your existence someplace less open and more comfortable?"

            Laughter huffed out of Derek, and without any warning he reached down and hooked his hands under Stiles' thighs. Startled, a burst of laughter escaped Stiles as Derek hefted him into the air, throwing him over one shoulder and heading for the house.

            "Smart-ass," Derek growled, though it was in good humor. It felt _good_ to laugh with Stiles again. It felt _good_ to joke, to know that despite how close he had come to losing himself, to becoming a monster, Stiles was not afraid of him.

            That, possibly more than anything, was something Derek knew he was going to need.

            Despite Stiles' insincere protests to being carried, and all of the immature butt-patting Stiles did en route, Derek toted him all the way across the lawn, through the manor, and into his room, depositing him with a quiet _whump_ onto the nest of blankets. Stiles wriggled into a more comfortable position and Derek paused, heart in his throat to see him there. _This_ was where he belonged, where they both belonged; nestled in bedding that smelled like home.

            "You're staring," Stiles said after a moment.

            "Admiring," Derek mumbled guiltily, but he liked the blush that rose along Stiles' jaw and across his nose so he didn't take it back.

            Stiles beckoned him down, and Derek obeyed, putting one knee to either side of Stiles' hips. When Stiles reached his hands up, Derek bent to meet him, eyes sliding closed as Stiles' hands found the clasp of the leather collar around his neck. He hadn't bothered taking it off after the last fight.

            "Doesn't suit you," Stiles said as he tossed it toward the door. It landed with a dull thud, clattering up against the wood. A moment later, Stiles' hands were smoothing up under his shirt, and Derek smiled.

            "Does that not suit me either?" he asked as the edge of his shirt bunched around Stiles' wrists.

            "It's the wrong color," Stiles told him earnestly, though Derek could see the shadow of a grin on his lips.

            "Better take it off, too," Derek agreed. He lifted his arms, and he liked the eagerness with which Stiles pulled the loose fabric off of him. As soon as it had been cast aside, Derek plucked at the edge of Stiles' dark, button-down shirt. At least it wasn't his suit coat. "Aren't you a bit overdressed?"

            With a devious smile, Stiles wriggled out from under Derek and sat up. He managed to get the top layer off before Derek began to help, fingers nimbly navigating the row of buttons on his under shirt, until he could slide the material from Stiles' shoulders, exposing skin. He wasted no time bending to lick a short, hot stripe and press kisses from the curve of his shoulder to the crook of his neck.

            "Shoes," Stiles said breathlessly, just a second before Derek could kiss him in earnest. "Off, get them off."

            Derek scooted back enough to reach Stiles' feet, tugging off the nice, shiny black shoes. He tossed them in the general vicinity of _less important than kissing Stiles_ , ignoring the sound they made as they hit, and then Stiles was pulling him back in, lips hot on his. A whimper threaded through what little air was between them, though he wasn't sure who had made it.

            "Still okay?" Stiles asked on a breath between kisses.

            Nodding, Derek touched his forehead to Stiles', just soaking up his presence. He felt much better than okay; he felt powerful and whole and good. More importantly, he felt like _himself_. He had something to hold onto, some _one_ to hold on to, and it was giving him the control he needed.

            He wanted to tell Stiles all of that, to press meaning into every inch of Stiles' skin until there was no mistaking how important Derek wanted him to be, how important he was already becoming. Instead, he surged down and kissed Stiles again, relishing the way Stiles arched into him right back. His name, whispering off of Stiles' lips, felt every bit as grounding as it had in the arena.

            They stopped only long enough to wriggle out of their remaining clothes, and for Derek to fetch a small bottle of oily, sweet-smelling lubricant from the bedside drawers. Stiles had given it to him a while ago, shown him how to use it on him, how to coat his fingers and breach him gently and work him open for taking, but that wasn't what Derek wanted this time.

            He knelt down, straddling Stiles' hips, and taking one of his hands in his. Stiles watched with wide eyes, his already-quick heartbeat thudding a little louder as Derek bent just slightly to lick two of his fingers, because he knew the oil would obscure the taste of him in a moment. His name rasped out of Stiles' throat as Derek slicked Stiles' fingers and moved to give him room.

            It didn't take long, or at least Derek didn't let him take long, to work him open. The need to be closer, to feel Stiles under him, in him, grounding and claiming and freeing him, left Derek trembling, asking shakily for what he wanted sooner than Stiles seemed ready to stop. As soon as he was free of Stiles' fingers, Derek pulled himself up, nudging at Stiles until he was flat on his back and Derek could slide home astride him.

            Stiles' hands flew to his hips, holding him there with a guttural noise, fingers pressed so hard into Derek's skin they would have left bruises on a human. Groaning, Derek bowed forward until he could brush a kiss to Stiles' exposed throat. He murmured Stiles' name against his fluttering heartbeat, and then began to move.

           Fingers splayed over Stiles' ribs for support, breath panting in and out, eyes almost closed, he rocked his hips slowly, feeling every inch of Stiles inside of him. This was what he wanted, to be able to feel the connection between them, physical and mental, to forge a bond between them that could keep him anchored to himself no matter what other power surged through his blood. He wanted to be able to remember this- the pressure of Stiles' hands on his hips, the sound of his name falling from Stiles' lips, the feeling of being surrounded and filled by Stiles.

            When he could remember nothing else of himself, he wanted to remember how he felt about Stiles.

            The thought tipped him over the edge, set his fingers to pressing bruises into Stiles' ribs as he came, Stiles not far behind, shuddering through it beneath him until they both fell still. Breathing still ragged, Derek leaned forward to kiss him, sealing between their lips the ragged noise Stiles made at the movement.

            Stiles pried his hands from Derek's hips, bringing them up to gently cup his jaw, to hold him there as they shared soft, languid kisses until their heartbeats had calmed. When he finally pulled away, slipping off of Stiles to lay beside him instead, Derek smiled.

            "Stay," he murmured, not quite begging. It had been a long time since Stiles had stayed in his bed instead.

            "Okay," Stiles agreed, eyes closing. He dragged them open again a moment later. "Shower. I'm not sleeping in this mess."

            Laughter bubbled out of Derek, and he helped Stiles to his feet. He didn't think it was a mess; he had missed the scent of both of them so heavy in his den, thick on his skin and on Stiles. He enjoyed the sound of his breathing, of his heartbeat all around Derek as he fell asleep.

            He couldn't help but wonder, as he followed Stiles into the bathroom, how much longer he would be able to enjoy them before the time came for him to leave.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to [Redbirdblogs](http://redbirdblogs.tumblr.com), [Broodingsoul](http://broodingsoul.tumblr.com), and [therealsassyclh](http://therealsassyclh.tumblr.com) for doing beta reads for this chapter! As always, thank you to [Elin](http://firecracker452.tumblr.com) for sitting through plotting, suffering through 3am moments of writing-induced panic, and checking everything over thoroughly so I feel safe posting!

 

 

* * *

_Arenas shall be required to have_

_a minimum of four (4) handlers_

_on site during hours of operation_

* * *

 

            Derek sat nervously in the stands, staying as close as he could reasonably get to Stiles in order to avoid touching the gruff-looking man to his right. When Stiles had told him that Laura was going to be fighting, Derek had insisted on going along. Since he wasn't able to fight yet, due to the time restrictions for Division 2 fighters, Stiles had decided to sneak him in as a human.

            Already, Derek was regretting his decision. He had forgotten how much _louder_ the spectators were when he was amongst them rather than down below in the pit. The man beside him kept a running, grumbling commentary on what the two fighters sparring below were doing, as though it wasn't perfectly clear to see. Derek suspected the man had never been in a fight in his life, judging by the advice he was giving- certainly he'd never been in a real fight.

           Even worse, he kept throwing glances Derek's way, as if he was trying to figure out where he had seen Derek before. Stiles had given him a clean shave before the journey, and they had dyed his hair the most awful blond Derek had ever seen. Even knowing it would change back when he did a full-wolf shift didn't make him feel any better about it. Cora had nearly choked laughing at him when she saw the blond streak the dye put in his beta shift.

            The five-minute tone sounded, and the crowd's cheers lifted as the fight began in earnest. The fighters below broke apart with snarls, and the man's attention thankfully turned away from Derek to watch. It was only Divisions 3 and 4, for which Derek was grateful, as it meant that the fights would only last until someone purposefully drew blood.

            What was _odd_ , Derek thought as he watched the two circle and snap at one another, was that they looked as if they were getting along rather than actually fighting. The smaller of the two, a nimble little sphinx, had made several strikes at the hulking naga she was facing, but always with her claws pulled in. The soft pads of her paws slid over his scaly hide, and he bopped her on the head. Derek could _tell_ it was a soft motion, but she threw herself away from him as if he'd struck a mighty blow... and the crowd cheered just as wildly as if that had been true.

            Derek nudged at Stiles' arm, and Stiles made an inattentive noise. "Stiles," Derek said, just loud enough to be heard above the cheering. When the human turned to look at him, Derek could see he was just as confused. "This isn't normal," Derek concluded.

            "No," Stiles said, turning his gaze back to the pit. "It's not... against the rules, either."

            Craning his neck, Derek watched for a few more moments as the sphinx danced circles around the naga, and he spun to meet her, making a circle of his trailing tail. Derek's heartbeat shot up and - for just a moment - he was left with the impression of a serpent in a perfect circle, never-ending. He swallowed, and the vision was gone as the naga slithered away from the sphinx.

            When she came at him this time, his tail shot up from below her, wrapping around her to hold her in place. Derek sat back, knowing that the fight was over even if the others in the stands believed she could get out. Though naga were venomous, they preferred to constrict their prey. Once they had something in their coils, they rarely released it alive.

            Derek watched as the naga leaned over the squirming sphinx, saw his mouth move near her ear. Derek sat up a little straighter, wishing it was possible to hear over the din. Just barely, the coils of the creature slackened, enough that the sphinx was able to wriggle one paw free. She whapped a paw against the naga's cheek, pausing just a heartbeat before drawing away.

            A bright, red streak welled in the wake of her paw's path.

            The naga released her, and gave her a quick pat on the head before heading for his side of the arena. The victory bell rang as he reached his holding pen and the sphinx began to bound back to her own.

            "He let her win," Stiles said quietly, shaking his head, eyes moving but not focused as he tried to sort through what he had seen.

            Something within Derek warmed. "They must have come to an agreement," he said.

            "That's impossible," Stiles murmured, though he looked hopeful. "They keep you on the opposite side of the arena from your opponent before fights... supposedly so you can't see them, but we've always figured it's to keep you from talking. From organizing anything like that- like what we just saw."

            "From cheating," Derek said, and Stiles nodded. "Well, they did it. Somehow, they did it."

            Below them, the arena staff began to smooth the sands for the next fight, and Derek did his best to clear his head. Even though he knew there was nothing at all he could do for her from where he was, Laura was next and he needed to be able to focus on her. Beside him, Stiles reached up and touched the tiny earring in his ear, the one which activated his earpiece and allowed him to hear the other end.

            "Laura? You're going up now," he said quietly. Faintly, so very faintly, Derek heard a response, though it was too quiet to make out any of the words. "Yes. When you hear the five-minute tone, just let the kanima give you a scratch. It's going to hurt, but you'll heal."

            Derek didn't have to hear the words to hear the sarcasm in her tone. He hid a smile as Stiles gave him a dry look.

            "Yes, he's here," Stiles said a moment later, and then: "Okay." He leaned in close to Derek, and said quietly, "She asked me to tell you she loves you."

            "Can I-?" Derek asked, touching a finger to his ear.

            Stiles put his finger back against the earring, and Derek moved to be close to the earpiece. "You're gonna do great, Laura. I love you and I'll see you when we head home."

            There was a tinny noise and Stiles smiled. "Good luck," he said.

            A moment later, the gates began to open, and Laura stepped tentatively from her pen. Across the sands, a lizard-like creature darted out and stilled, looking at her with slitted, yellow eyes. It didn't react when Laura took her beta shift, and when she dashed at it with claws out, it simply dodged, slithering easily out of the way.

            Laura's snarl reached the stands as she whirled on the creature. "You're doing well," Stiles told her. "Let it look like it is playing with you."

            In response, Laura charged again, but this time she moved with the kanima when it dodged, and it was forced to make a second, clumsier retreat to avoid being blooded. Derek moved to the edge of his seat, eyes wide as he watched every pulled blow, every easy dodge, every step they took toward or away from one another, until the tone sounded above the crowd. As soon as she heard it, Laura seemed to slip in the sand, and the kanima moved like a flash of lightning.

            Its claws came away bloody, and the announcer gave the match to its Warden.

            For a moment, Laura lay completely still in the sands, and Derek almost got up to go to her, but Stiles put a hand on his chest and a finger to his ear. "Laura?"

            Movement from below, as she rolled over and regarded Isaac, who had entered the sands to help her if needed. She gave him a snarl, but Stiles laughed, so Derek thought maybe it was for show. Then she was heading toward her pen with Isaac just behind her, zap-stick in hand. He knew Isaac wouldn't need it. Even from this distance, Derek could tell now that Laura was fine.

            Derek sat back, releasing his breath and feeling a little dizzy at the realization. Laura was okay. She had gotten through her fight and would be unmarked by the time she got into the truck to go home.

            "Stiles, can I- when can I see her?" he asked as quietly as he could despite the crowd.

            Stiles gave him a look of consideration, and then put a finger to his ear again. "Boyd? Can Derek ride truck with you?" There was a pause, and Stiles made a few noises of agreement, and then, "Okay, thanks." As soon as his finger lifted from his skin, he turned to smile at Derek. "Come on, I'll take you down. They'll just need my signature a few times before they release her back to us, and then you can all go home early."

            "What about you?" Derek asked as he clambered to his feet. Usually Stiles left with them, following the truck back to the manor or, at most, lagging at the nearest town to run an errand.

           "I want to stay for the rest of the fights," Stiles told him, turning his attention back to the arena floor for just a moment. The sweepers were smoothing out the sand so that the next match would start on fresh ground. There wouldn't be much time if Stiles wanted to get back to see it begin.

            Derek's brow furrowed, but he didn't press the issue. If Stiles wanted to stay and watch more fights, there was nothing Derek could do to stop him. It didn't seem _normal_ for Stiles to want to watch matches that didn't involve his own fighters, but Derek trusted that there was a reason. Stiles would tell him if it was important, just as he had been doing lately.

            So he nodded, and they picked their way across the stands to the stairs, with Derek following Stiles into the belly of the arena. It made his skin itch when Stiles knocked on the door to the handler room, and he fidgeted nervously until someone appeared. Stiles flashed a bright smile to the brawny guy, and before he could be asked any awkward questions, Stiles inquired about Erica.

            The man's face paled visibly, and he stepped aside to allow them in. "Yeah," he said as Stiles moved past him, tugging Derek in after him. "Head left."

            The main hall of the handler area was not very large, barely enough for them to walk single-file, and Derek thought he could feel the walls pressing in around him. The huge handler behind them did nothing to lessen Derek's feeling of being _trapped_ , and he had to fight to control his breathing. This was a bad place. This was the only connection between the stands and the pens, and it was full of handlers that had permission to kill any super they suspected might escape into the crowd. They didn't belong here.

            Stiles pulled him sharply to the left at the middle of the corridor, and suddenly there was space all around him. The doorway they'd crossed opened to a large room with a scatter of tables and chairs in the center, the walls ringing them lined with soft-looking couches. Along the far wall was a long countertop with a few appliances, a stack of plates, and a basket of plastic utensils. At the end of the counter was a fridge that looked fairly ancient and not a little dingy.

            Sitting at one of the tables were Erica and Isaac, a lazy game of cards going on between them. She glanced up when they entered, and for just a moment Derek could see the way she froze, and he knew why. It was one thing to bring Derek to a match at all, up in the stands where everything was so hectic and dimly lit that people probably wouldn't be able to tell what he was.

            It was another thing entirely to bring him right into the heart of the pit, into the den of handlers who spent their lives in close proximity to so many supernatural creatures. Here, the light was bright and the sound of the arena was so quiet as to be nearly absent.

            "Stiles," she greeted, the stiffness in her voice smoothing out as she smiled. "And company! Gracing the pit with your presence?"

            "He's going to ride truck with Boyd," Stiles said instead of answering. "I need to go sign papers upstairs so you can leave, and he didn't want to sit through all of it. I thought he could catch a game of cards or something with you instead."

            It was phrased like a question, maybe a suggestion, but Derek could see it wasn't. He thought his heart might thump out of his chest with all the tension in the air, or that he might be crushed by the presence of the other handlers as they all looked on, waiting to see what Erica was going to do. Technically Stiles was her boss, but Derek knew that here, in the real pit of the arena, the handlers made the calls. It was their job, above all else, to keep everyone safe, and Stiles was asking her to take a wolf into their midst.

            "Sure," she said evenly, shrugging one shoulder as if it didn't matter at all. "But hurry up, will you? I promised Boyd we could go out for dinner, and that means getting your wolf back home before dark."

            "Back in ten or dinner is on me," Stiles assured her, putting his hands together and giving her a thankful little nod. He turned to Derek with a smile. "See you at home."

            Derek kept his eyes on Stiles until he disappeared around the edge of the doorway, and then he turned back to Erica and Isaac. They were all being watched by the other handlers, and so Derek pulled out one of the folding chairs and plopped down into it as nonchalantly as he was able, hoping it seemed enough like a human behavior to pass.

            "So... what are we playing?" He could feel all eyes on him.

            Isaac hid a smile behind his cards for a second, and then folded them onto the table and held out his hands for Erica's as well. "We'll start over. Anyone else want to join?" he offered loudly to the room.

            It sounded more like a challenge than an offer, but Derek didn't dare take a look around to see what the others were doing. After a moment of inaction, Isaac dropped his attention back to the table, and passed the cards to Erica to shuffle.

            Erica told Derek the rules as she began to deal the cards anew. A young handler, about Erica's age, joined them after a moment of hesitation, glancing between the two handlers and the wolf in their midst. He could smell how nervous the girl was, so he tried to appear small and to smile nicely at her, though he kept his mouth shut. He was just as aware as Erica and Isaac that the handlers were trained to recognize supers, even when they were in human forms.

            "You're Ashborn," she said, barely a whisper.

            Erica stopped dealing cards to look at the girl, and Derek could see tension written in every line of her body. The whole room smelled of it, and he could feel the eyes of the other two strangers on them, waiting to see what he would do. There was no way they hadn't pegged him as some kind of supernatural creature, and yet she was addressing him as if she knew he could speak.

            For their part, Isaac and Erica appeared just as confused. Until today, Derek had thought they were under orders not to speak about how intelligent supers were, so as not to give Stiles and Derek and the others away. But Stiles had lead Derek into their midst almost as though it were no big deal, and Derek could see now that they were struggling to decide how to handle it.

            "No," he said evenly, deciding to take the risk for them. If the handlers had wanted to kill him, he thought they would have done it by now. This one was curious, and if she was talking to him at all, there was a chance she knew more already. "Someone set my home on fire and burned my family alive. They found me alone in the ashes and they called me Ashborn so that I wouldn't forget." He lifted the cards Erica had set in front of him, and then looked up to meet the handler's eyes. "It is not my name, and I haven't forgotten."

            Even though he could hear her heartbeat thrumming wildly, the unfamiliar handler remained outwardly calm. He wondered what she was thinking after such an elaborate answer, wondered if she had known they could speak like this. She seemed more nervous than surprised.

            "What's your real name?" she asked, catching Derek off guard.

            "Derek," he answered automatically. A shiver ran under his skin. He hadn't given his real name to anyone outside of Stiles' estate, but it had rolled off his tongue so easily.

            "I'm Sandra," she said, and then lifted her cards, fanning them in her hand and dropping her gaze from his to look at them. The other unfamiliar handlers turned back to the books they had been reading, as if nothing at all were amiss. "And we're not all assholes, Derek."

            "Enough of you are," he said, watching as Erica and Isaac both checked their cards and then began to play. He knew that even if they weren't looking directly at him, they were both prepared to defend him if it came down to it. Somehow, Derek didn't think this was a ruse.

            "A few of us," she countered, picking through her cards. She glanced up at him, and forced a smile that didn't really make Derek feel any better. "It's a job, for most of us. A scary job for a lot of people. A job where people get injured or even killed sometimes. But there's also a lot of us who are rooting for what you're doing. When you work as closely with supers as we do... well, you make friends. The other side of that coin is that you lose friends, too."

            "I can only imagine how hard that must be for you," Derek said coldly. Isaac toed him under the table, but Derek wasn't sure what that was supposed to mean. He didn't sit at a lot of tables with strange humans.

            Sandra sighed, dropping her gaze from him. "There's a lot of us tired of losing friends and- and other things. You gotta be tired of it, too."

            Derek's gaze narrowed. He couldn't tell if she was trying to hint at something or trying to fish for information. He wasn't sure he liked either option. "I'm afraid I don't know what you mean."

            "What I mean is, you know, we hear talk sometimes, in the pens, when people don't think we're listening. But we are," she told him.

            Derek swallowed any response he might have given. Of course the handlers heard them talking to one another, but he'd assumed it was dismissed as imitation. Parroting. Mimicry. He had told himself that they didn't believe they were hearing intelligence, because he couldn't imagine a creature capable of doing the things he had seen handlers do if they knew.

            "And if... if what we're hearing is true?" She paused, looking him over. "You're gonna need some friends."

            "I have friends," he said quietly. He glanced up to Erica and Isaac, who had both given up any pretense of paying attention to their cards in order to observe the exchange. It occurred to him that they must put on just as good of a show as any other handler in the room. They cracked their zap-sticks and shouted orders when necessary. In that moment, he began to wonder how many others were doing the same.

            She smiled a little at him, and this time it looked genuine. "Yeah, well, then you got allies too, furball."

            "That's good to know," Derek told her, returning the smile tentatively.

            He wasn't entirely sure what she meant, but maybe once they were clear of this area, he could ask Erica and Isaac what they had been up to down here in handlerland. Maybe Sandra was right, and there was talk here the same as there was in the pens. Maybe the handlers really were getting sick of treating supernatural beings like dangerous animals. Maybe they were ready to treat them like people.

            After that, the time passed uneventfully. Several trainers poked their heads in to say hello or ask for help or wish the others luck before they left for the day. For the most part, they all ignored Derek, and he found he was grateful for it.

            Eventually Erica put her finger to her ear and, after a moment of listening, said, "Okay, Boss."

            When they left, instead of heading down the corridor toward the stands, Erica and Isaac bracketed Derek in and corralled him toward the pens area. Derek swallowed hard but made no protest as they opened the huge, iron door at the end of the main hall. It hissed and whirred closed behind them, locking automatically.

            "He is such a _fucking idiot_ sometimes!" Erica snarled the second the door was locked. She slammed the butt of one fist into the solid metal, though it made almost no noise. "I'm sorry," she said to Derek, then began walking down the hall.

            Isaac gave Derek an apologetic look, and then nudged him into walking beside him. "No one in there is going to say anything," Isaac told Derek quietly as they walked to the end of the hall, where Laura's pen was. "Stiles knew that."

            "Then why is she so angry?" Derek asked.

            It seemed as though it had gone fairly well, he'd thought. He didn't think they could have taken on all the handlers at once, if they had started a fight as a united force, but Derek also hadn't gotten the impression that that was what they wanted. Despite everything he had seen of them in the pit and in the pens, the handlers seemed nearly as laid-back as Erica, Isaac, and Boyd.

            "Because... well, Stiles put her - us - in a tight spot," Isaac explained. "Sandra was right- there _is_ a lot of talk among the handlers about... hm... I guess, no one really likes it when friends, or even pets if that's what they see supers as, die. By now, everyone knows you're in a contract to get out, so they start thinking, you know, what if my charge could get out to safety? The ones who know supers are people too, they make friends. Some of them become more, like you and Stiles. And once you start thinking there's a chance they could get out, it- it snowballs."

            "What is snowballs?" Derek asked, tipping his head a little.

            Isaac laughed, a pleasant, warm sound that Derek liked very much. "It means they start with a little idea, like one person getting out, and the more they think about it, the bigger the idea gets. Maybe so big it becomes all or nothing."

            Though a long hall and a thick metal door stood between them now, Derek stopped walking and glanced back to where Sandra would be, letting Isaac's words fit into his paradigm like puzzle pieces. "She wants to help," he concluded, looking to Isaac for confirmation.

            A little shrug and a clap on the shoulder was all Derek got. "A lot of people want to help," Isaac said as he shot a glance to Erica, making sure she didn't need his help. "A lot of handlers want to see things change. See you all get free, maybe."

            "If we're free, they'd lose their jobs," Derek said, shifting uncomfortably on his feet.

            He'd thought a lot about that side of things. If the humans stepped up to help his people, and the arenas were shut down, a lot of people would not have jobs. Jobs, Derek had gleaned, were very important to humans. Important enough to have kept them on this track for hundreds of years, killing supers both willfully and through negligence to their intelligence and agency.

            "Yeah," Isaac agreed. He sounded _sad_ , but Derek couldn't see his face. "You know, there's a game I used to play with my brother when we were kids. You start with a hollow tube, and you put a bunch of thin sticks through it, so many that they block up the path through the tube. Then you put marbles on top of them, and take turns pulling out sticks. The trick is that you can pull out some of them without losing any marbles, but once you start taking away enough sticks, things fall apart. The game ends and no one can keep playing. Everyone blames the last person to pull out a stick, the one who ends it."

            "What if... everyone pulled one stick at the same time?" Derek inquired. Ahead of them, Erica had the door to Laura's pen open and was talking quietly to her.

            "That's not how you play the game," Isaac said, but he smiled fondly at Derek. "You'd invalidate the whole thing if you did that. There'd be no single person to blame."

            Derek shot him a glance, and then let it go in favor of crossing to Laura's side. She perked immediately upon seeing him, and a moment later he had her wrapped up in a big, congratulatory hug. "You did it!"

            "Der!" she exclaimed, with enough enthusiasm that he drew back. She threw a hesitant glance to Erica and Isaac, but whatever protest she had seemed to die as she turned back to Derek. "The fighters. They're organizing."

            "I know," Derek said. "They want to fight."

            "No," she said quickly, touching a hand to his arm with a shake of her head. "They recognized your name, when I told them who I was. I- I told them that my fight was staged. The little sphinx that was in here, she said there would be trouble if the humans noticed a fixed fight. She told the others and they-"

            Her mouth snapped shut, and she looked nervously at the handlers. "It's okay," Derek assured her. "They're on our side, remember?"

            She seemed to debate this a moment, chewing on her lower lip, and then she nodded. "The others... they staged all their fights so mine wouldn't seem out of place."

            Derek swallowed, remembering the way the huge naga had let the little sphinx beat him despite that he could easily have won the match. "H-How did they get the other side to agree?"

            "You," she breathed. "Your name. The sphinx, she told the other side you needed their help, and they did. They helped because of you."

            When he turned to look at Erica and Isaac, they were both staring back at him, hearts beating just a little too quickly. They hadn't known, before. Derek hadn't realized how deeply his story was affecting the other supers. They weren't just organizing to fight anymore. They had a cause, and Derek had somehow become the heart of it.

            He wondered, as they led Laura out of the pen and toward the trucking area, what else they could accomplish if they put their minds to it, together.

  

* * *

  _The bite of a werewolf can communicate a disease_

_which mimics a werewolf’s ability, causing the infected human_

_to transform into various shifted werewolf forms_

* * *

 

            Derek was lying sprawled out in the sun on the grass when he first heard the rumbling down the road. For a few moments he listened, trying to decide if he knew to whom it belonged. There were only a few houses for miles and miles, and hardly anyone who didn't live down this stretch of road ever used it. This car wasn't one of the usuals, and Stiles hadn't said anything about expecting company, but when the back door of the manor banged shut, Derek realized he recognized the vehicle headed their way.

            "Scott's coming!" Stiles called to Derek as he walked across the lawn toward him.

            "That's unexpected," Derek replied as soon as he knew Stiles was in hearing range.

            Stiles shrugged and stuck his hands in his pockets. "He said they were over to visit Lydia, and they all decided to come here instead. Scott and Lydia both have more documents for me."

            Derek hummed an acknowledgement as Stiles plopped down next to him. Their shoulders brushed, warm and comforting, and he had to remember not to lean back on his hands. His shoulder still ached from the dislocation during his fight that morning, and the stitching down his back, though solid, felt stretched any time he arched his back. Even as they sat still and waited for the car, he could feel the ribs along his back knitting together from where they had splintered under the bear shifter's claws.

            Eventually the car came into view down the road, and Stiles pressed a kiss to Derek's cheek before rising and dusting off his jeans. With a small groan, Derek turned over and gingerly sprawled back on the soft grass.

            "I think I'll stay here," he said, eyes closing.

            Stiles smiled, and poked at him with the toe of his shoe. "You should come," he said. "If they do have new information, you're probably going to want to know it."

            Before he had even thought about, Derek said: "I trust you'll tell me later."

            They both fell still as the car turned into the long drive and began trundling toward them, and Derek realized it was true. He did trust that Stiles would tell him whatever he needed or would want to know. Since they'd spoken about it again, Stiles had made an effort to ask if Derek understood what was happening or what things meant, and Derek had felt better asking for any information he thought he might be missing.

            When the car rolled to a stop along the curve of the drive closest to them, Stiles seemed to snap out of it. "Okay," he said. "I think I can do that."

            The car doors were clacking open before Derek could say anything else, and a high-pitched squeal resonated from within. They both turned to look in time to see a small human child wriggling out of his mother's grasp and bolting for Stiles' knees.

            "Jack!" Stiles exclaimed, catching the boy with both hands before he could cause any damage. "How've you been, big guy?"

            "We visiting Aunt 'Ydia!" the boy explained, throwing his arms around Stiles' neck in a hug. He began talking into Stiles' shoulder but it was too garbled for Derek to hear anything except Stiles' agreements until he set the kid back on the ground.

            "Allison, Lydia," Stiles greeted as Jack took off for his approaching mom. Scott was still at the car, rifling through the trunk. Derek sighed and sat up, resigning himself to greeting everyone. He'd been hoping for a quiet afternoon of recovery.

            "Stiles, Derek," Allison greeted. "Derek, I don't believe you've met my son, Jackson." She turned Jack around so that he was facing Derek instead of her. "Jack, say hi to Derek."

            "Hi," the boy said. Then, much to Derek's surprise, the boy lifted his chin and gave the air between them a short, almost-discreet sniff.

            Derek's heart beat a little faster as he raised his nose and did the same, and caught the scent of _wolf_ on the slight breeze. It wasn't Scott, was not the scent of a bitten wolf but the scent of another born werewolf, an early generation, the scent of humanity still clinging to its genes. His eyes widened, and he sat up straighter, realization dawning on him.

            Scott wasn't invested in this cause for himself. He wasn't trying to make life better for bitten werewolves, or to be allowed to live a normal life.

            He was trying to protect his child, a creature who could be taken from him and put in the pit because society would consider Jackson too far removed from humanity.

            "Hello, Jack," Derek said slowly. He glanced to Stiles, wondering if Stiles knew, and then back to Allison, who was watching him just as intently. "It's nice to meet you."

            "You have an owie?" Jack said curiously, little fingers curling into the loose fabric of Allison's skirt.

            Derek swallowed, suspicions completely confirmed. None of his wounds were exposed- all of his stitching and bandages were beneath his clothing. The only way Jack could have known he was injured was if he had smelled it. Derek looked up to Allison for confirmation, for permission, and she gave him the slightest of nods.

            "I was in a fight," he said carefully.

            Jack's head tipped a little, and Derek felt something warm inside of him. It had been a very long time since he had been around a pup so young. "Inna 'rena?"

            "Yes," he replied. "It wasn't fun."

            Jack studied him for a few long heartbeats, and then looked up to his mother. "Can I play with Mr. Derek?"

            Allison looked over at Stiles, who shrugged and nodded to Derek, who took in the silent communication he had gotten used to humans using. "I don't mind," he said in answer.

            With another little nod, Allison got down on one knee to be at eye level for Jack. "Okay, but you know the rules of playing away from mom and dad?" she said. "You don't leave Mr. Derek alone, you do what Mr. Derek tells you to do, no matter what, and if something happens to Mr. Derek, you use your button, okay?"

            "Okay," Jack said solemnly.

            "Show me," Allison said.

            Jack held out his arm and Derek caught sight of a little band around his wrist. Allison held her arm out as well, revealing a matching bracelet. Woven into part of it was a locket of some sort, which Jack snapped open and pressed the flat button within. The band of both bracelets lit up and started making a fast, repetitive beeping sound.

            "Good," she said, and she pressed her own button. The bracelets fell silent and went dim just as Scott slammed the trunk of the car.

            "We'll be in the library, if you need us," Stiles said to Derek. "We'll come get you two for lunch in a bit."

            "Sure," Derek said as Allison kissed Jack on the forehead and got to her feet.

            "Be good," she told them both before turning to help Scott carry the stacks of bound-up papers he had brought along.

            Stiles flashed a smile to Derek, then he and Lydia followed suit, and they all disappeared into the house together. Jack stood still long enough to watch them go, and then crossed over and plopped down next to Derek. It was then, with Jack staring at him, that Derek realized he had no idea what to do with a little kid.

            As soon as the door had closed, Jack solved the problem for him. "You're a wuff," he said plainly.

            Though taken aback, Derek nodded. "Yes, I'm a wolf. Like you."

            "Mom says don't tell," Jackson said. He looked over at Derek, eyes tracking up and down his form, sizing him up.

            "She's right," Derek said. He wished he didn't have to agree. All children, human and super alike, should be safe in this world. "There are a lot of people who would hurt you if they knew."

            Jack's head tipped slightly. "You hurt."

            "Yes," Derek confirmed again. "I was in a fight."

            Still watching him, Jack scooted closer, until he could reach out and lay a pudgy little hand on Derek's forearm. He grimaced the same instant Derek felt the ache of the wound on his back lessen just a little. Quickly, he yanked his arm away from Jackson's grasp, nearly causing the child to topple into the grass.

            "Don't do that," Derek said, more sharply than he'd intended. "Never do that."

            A stubborn, cranky look passed over Jackson's features. "You're not my mom," he said.

            "Your mom told you to listen to me," Derek countered, not believing he was actually arguing with a little kid. He sighed. "This hurt is my hurt," Derek explained. "It will go away soon."

            "Then you can play?" Jackson asked, eyes brightening. A little too bright, Derek thought, and a little too amber. He was pretty sure Jack's parents wouldn't approve of him playing around as a werewolf, but he also knew that no one was around for a long ways and certainly no one was going to turn up unannounced.

            "I can play now, pup," he said, letting his fangs out and giving Jackson a toothy smile.

            With a squeal of delight, Jackson scrambled to get to all fours, his little ears poking through his mass of dark hair as he moved. When he looked up, his face had taken on a beta shift that was far more cute than it was intimidating. Derek allowed a beta shift, mindful of his stitches and shoulder, and planted his claws on either side of the kid, practically towering over him.

            Jackson stood up then, and planted a tiny, clawed hand on each of Derek's cheeks and squished them together. He looked somberly into Derek's eyes and said very seriously. "You're It."

            Then he dropped to all fours, dashed beneath Derek, and took off running across the lawn. Derek let out a loud, playful growl, and gave chase at an easy, loping pace so that he wouldn't catch up _too_ quickly.

 

* * *

_Wardens in Division 2 are eligible for_

_monetary compensation from the ARC_

_and the arena house boards_

* * *

 

            Stiles had hastily cleared off a few of the library tables and pushed them together for their meeting, and the first thing Scott and Allison had done was cover them completely with documents. Boyd had joined them long enough to deliver some of the files Stiles had missed, most of which were in Lydia's lap now. She was paging idly through Laura's papers, sharp eyes skimming for new information.

            Sometimes, Stiles wished it were safe to send one another these documents electronically. He missed the ease of access, the ability to search through them all by typing a few keywords. However, this was the safest way. No electronics anyone could monitor, no phone conversations anyone could log. Hard copies and in-person meet ups. At least Stiles had been friends with all of them for long enough it wouldn't seem too suspicious that they were meeting up more often.

            "So what you're telling us is that the Hale facility fire was not an accident," Lydia said, sharp eyes flicking up to him. "Laura and Derek and even Cora all had their files altered in some way beforehand."

            "Yeah," Stiles said. "For a while, when we found Laura, I wasn't sure who was responsible. The warden who took her, Davis, he could have never fought her again if he wanted. If he wanted to set her free, that was a perfect opportunity. But he still put her back in, he just waited for _years_ to do it. The waiting didn't make any sense on its own." He reached over and pulled a brown folder from under another pile of papers, and opened it, turning it around to face Lydia. "But then we had these, and I think whatever happened with Laura was secondary to this."

            Lydia picked up the file, eyes scanning it for the relevant information. Her brows furrowed when she found it. "Talia's fight records?"

            "The papers say she died in the pit," he explained, leaning to point to the match outcome, nestled in a small sea of black marks. "The match went to some no-name warden from nowhereville. Look at the payout."

            Scott leaned to look over Lydia's shoulder, and his eyes widened. Stiles saw him flick his gaze up to the arena facility name. "Even standing-room-only, that arena doesn't hold enough people for that kind of win," he said. "They would have had to be at... "

            "An all-div arena," Lydia supplied. "L.A. maybe. Chicago. Even then it's a stretch. So, what? Hush money?"

            "She didn't die in the arena," Stiles said, reaching to pull papers out from under the ones Lydia was reading. "These are copies from the Hale facility, registering that Talia returned to their grounds that night, the same night as the fire. She won that fight, and it was looking like she wasn't going to stop winning anytime soon, but they couldn't just kill her."

            "They... the ARC?" Lydia asked. "You think the ARC secretly burned the Hale facility to the ground over one fighter?"

            "It sounds a lot less probable when you say it like that," Stiles admitted. "But no, I don't think it was just one fighter. It was _this_ fighter, the one who could fulfill the contract and get out, paving the way for others to escape their grasp. On top of that, Danny brought me information which suggests they used the event to push through legislation about private breeding facilities being unsafe, which got them all shut down."

            "Why would they want that?" Scott asked. "They need fighters to stay in business. The more people breeding supers, the more money they get."

            "Unless they weren't in it for money," Allison said, looking up from her papers for the first time. They were the ones Boyd had brought in last minute, binders full of records from his research. Some of the copies were of texts from hundreds of years ago, translated in many cases. None of it seemed relevant to the current problems.

            "What do you mean?" Stiles asked. Of course they were in it for money, or at least that was what they had been assuming. If Derek got out, others could get out. Eventually it could lead to a decrease in fighters under their control, which meant money that was out of their control.

            "Actaeon. Theron. Zerola. Caine," she listed, turning her binder around and laying it in the center of the table for them to see. "I don't know where you got this list from, but they're all hunter families."

            Stiles bent over the table and, holding her place with his thumb, closed the binder to see the front. _Arena Regulatory Committee Member Records_ was scrawled in permanent ink in Boyd's handwriting. "It's uh... it's a list of people who were on the ARC through history. Goes as far back as we could get records."

            "Gerard made me memorize hunter family names, when they wanted me to run for a position," Allison said. "And a lot of those? Hunters."

            "They wouldn't make an entire council out of hunters," Lydia scoffed. "They'd have to be stupid not to realize the conflict of interest."

            "It's not, technically," Scott pointed out. "Hunters now are legally bound to live-trapping regulations. There's a pretty hefty fee for killing wild supers. Even accidental kills are taken pretty seriously."

            "Those are fairly new regulations, Scott," Lydia said. "Last fifty years or so. These records go back way longer. Allison, you said a lot of them were hunters. Who are the others?"

            "No idea," she said with a shrug. She pulled the binder back to herself, scanning over the names. "Could be anyone, I guess. Unless..." She trailed off, and began flipping toward the back of the huge binder. She reached the last page and hesitated, reading the names before setting it back down in front of her. "This is as far back as your records go?"

            "Yeah, it doesn't cover all the way to the beginning, and there's some missing, but... yeah," Stiles confirmed.

            "There aren't any hunters on this page," she said. "At least none I recognize."

            Stiles walked around the table until he could stand beside her to see. His eyes ticked over the names, though he figured they held more meaning for someone who actually knew their stuff, as Boyd and Allison probably did. "When does the first one appear?"

            "The first one I noticed is here," she said, turning several pages before putting her finger on one of the names. "They stay on the council for a long time by themselves," she said, flipping to the next page. Stiles noted the changes of several names for the decade and a half before Allison put her finger on another name. "Then this one joins in."

            Stiles plucked a highlighter out of the jar of writing utensils at the center of the table. "Can you highlight all the hunter names you know?"

            Allison looked dubiously at the thick binder, but then nodded. "Yeah, might take a bit though."

            "I can have Harvelle bring lunch here, and we can wait," Stiles said, already pulling out his phone as Allison popped the cap off the highlighter and began marking up names.

            He excused himself from the room for a moment, long enough to ask Harvelle to please bring food to the library instead of leaving it in the dining area. He then called Boyd to explain what Allison had found, and what they were currently doing to his records. Boyd told him that he had seen a few names from hunter families, but not as many as Allison was describing, and asked if he could join them. Stiles agreed, and turned to head back into the library with the others.

            After a while, Boyd showed up and watched over Allison's shoulder as she highlighted name after name, the pages becoming more and more color marked as she neared the present. Stiles and Scott ended up scooting their chairs next to each other and going over the papers Scott had brought, but most of it was information Stiles and Danny had already found.

            Eventually Harvelle showed up pushing a cart laden with platters of food and drink, and left it for them to share. He informed Stiles that he had also taken lunch out to Derek and _that child_ , and reported that they were both playing some kind of game on the lawn. Stiles thanked him and the group was left to eat in peace.

            "It's interesting," Boyd said, long fingers tapping on the side of his glass of juice as he looked at the highlighting work Allison had done in the past hour. "The record starts with no hunters, then it goes up, maybe one a decade or two until between two and three hundred years ago, when the whole ARC was comprised of hunters."

            Stiles looked at the pages where Boyd was reading, the same pages that had given Allison her revelation. An entire committee comprised solely of hunters. They could have done anything, passed any law they wanted. "But that's not the case now," he concluded.

           "No, it started reverting," Boyd agreed. "About the same rate. Looks like the last hunter member to step down was... your grandfather, Allison."

            "Gerard didn't step down," Allison said, looking up to where Stiles was watching the exchange. "He was fired and restricted to Division 3 and below proxy fights."

            Boyd followed her gaze to Stiles, waiting for an explanation. Stiles took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "One of his game pieces, a werewolf, broke out of the holding pens at a match. It incapacitated both of its handlers and made it into the crowd. The piece was disqualified from its match, and Gerard threw a fit."

            "He put a pair of flashbomb arrows into the werewolf's eyes right in front of the whole arena, including reporters," Lydia said disdainfully, flipping her hair over her shoulder with one hand. "It was a publicity nightmare, as you can imagine. He technically can't fight any of the supers at his estate; they're registered to him, and Kate and Chris fight them by proxy."

            "That was Duke," Boyd said, realization dawning in his eyes. "Well, your grandfather being removed from the committee later allowed another non-hunter member to join - Ms. Blake, just last year - putting the committee at just three hunter lines."

            Allison looked thoughtful for a moment, and then: "Hunters don't just give up power they've worked for if they don't have to. Especially not if it allows them power over what they are hunting." She glanced to Stiles, and then to Boyd. "Why would they let the committee composition fall out of their favor?"

            "Maybe they didn't have a choice," Boyd suggested. "Gerard didn't."

           Everyone looked at the pages in front of Allison and Boyd, and finally Stiles shifted and took a seat across the tables. "Or maybe they didn't need the power anymore," Stiles said slowly.

            "How do you mean?" Allison asked, even as realization dawned in Boyd's eyes and he began flipping through pages to the first marks Allison had left.

            "He means that they may have been trying to accomplish something," Boyd said quietly, intent on finding the page. His traced his finger over the copied record, and then tapped the page. "And he might be right."

            "Accomplish something?" Scott asked. "Nothing's changed. They're still fighting and breeding supers, like they have for hundreds of years."

            "That's not true," Boyd corrected, looking up. "How much arena history do you know?"

            "Let's assume nothing," Scott said. Stiles knew that wasn't true, because they had both been very interested in everything to do with the arena as children, but he also knew that Boyd's knowledge of the arena stretched farther back than anything they had looked into in their youth.

            "A really long time ago, a couple thousand years ago - and I'm talking even before the Romans really popularized the sport - people used to hold arena-equivalent fights," Boyd explained. "With beasts. Lions, bears, wolves. When more of the world started getting settled, humans began encountering intelligent beasts- supernatural creatures. Not humans, but not just animals, and the space available to live in had to be shared. Some of these supernatural incorporated into human societies, like pearl dragons, kirin, gnomes, fawns. Some of them stayed apart from humans peaceably."

            "Eventually, the arena games became friendly sparring between humans and supernatural creatures," Stiles added. "Arena fighting was voluntary."

            "More importantly, matches typically finished at first blood," Boyd said, and Stiles' brows rose because he hadn't known that part.

            "There are death records," Stiles pointed out.

            "Yeah, it happened sometimes," Boyd said. "But it wasn't typical. Death matches weren't officially incorporated into arena standards until close to the end of the third century. Which is about when your... Actaeon gets added to the committee roster."

            Heavy silence fell over the gathered, until Lydia cleared her throat. "So, you think the hunters introduced a method of killing supernatural creatures without having to hunt them down? Why would anyone volunteer?"

            "Do they volunteer now?" Boyd asked, making a face at her which she returned. He pushed the binder to where everyone could see the highlights Allison had made. "Look for yourself. It's like Allison said: the hunters began infiltrating the system. By the time half the committee was hunters, the arenas were starting to switch to non-voluntary participation for supernatural creatures."

            "I'm going to guess that human participation started to wane as well?" Stiles asked. "By the time whole committee was hunters..."

            "Human participation disappeared," Boyd finished for him, looking up to meet his eyes. "They were killing off supers right in front of everyone."

            "The ARC set up the first breeding programs," Scott pointed out. "I'm not saying they aren't bad, or that they weren't hunting supers and doing terrible things, but why would they set up breeding programs if they were out to kill them off?"

            "Why does anyone in power do things?" Stiles asked. "Money. The coliseums the Romans built could hold thousands. By the time the hunters got to the sort of power they needed to kill the supers, they couldn't do it anymore. It was the biggest form of entertainment and income because it crossed public and private lines."

            "Privatized public entertainment," Lydia said. "The same as we have now. It's incredibly effective."

            "And technically, they never stopped killing supers," Allison said, sounding impressed. Everyone gave her looks that said she was being obvious, but she sat up straighter. "No, no, no," she said quickly. "I mean, of course supers are killing each other in the arena, but think about the wild populations that are being trapped. When I still lived at the Argent estate, Kate was trying to train me in hunting. The regulations on it are really thin, especially for species considered dangerous or common. Basically anything goes, if you're able to bring them in alive."

            "There are laws in place to protect species that are endangered," Stiles reminded her. "They can't bring in whatever they want from those lists."

            "Oh yes they can so," Allison countered. "There are clauses for that. They can still capture anything off those lists, they just have to be delivered alive to certain breeder facilities. They fall under preservation laws. The facilities are supposed to be breeding them to try to recover their populations."

            "That sounds like a good thing," Scott said dubiously. "I thought we were supposed to be finding bad things about them now?"

            "That's how they do it!" Allison said, exasperated. Her eyes darted back and forth and Stiles could practically see her working it out in her head now. "Of course it sounds like a good thing! Save the supers, bring them to special breeding facilities. Collect whatever is left of them into one facility... oh, that facility caught a disease outbreak? A fire? Too bad that species is extinct now, they did their best."

            "Oh no," Stiles breathed. Next to him, Scott looked a little ill. "They took control of all breeding a few years back. There used to be private facilities, people who might actually have been concerned about saving species... and the ARC had them all shut down after the fire at the Hale facility."

            Silence fell as everyone regarded one another, processing the new information. Put together with everything they had all been researching since the beginning, Stiles realized they had stumbled upon a plan that had taken literal centuries to pull off. He would have to research further, but even without looking he would bet money that Allison was right. If he looked at the number of supernatural species that had thrived even a hundred years ago, it would be a far greater number than the pool they fought from in present day.

            "Stiles?" Lydia said, catching his eye. When he looked over, she gave a little shake of her head. "I think there might just be something to your little Hale facility arson theory."

 

* * *

_All Division 2 game pieces must be registered_

_in the Division 2 game piece directory_

* * *

 

            The soft knock at Derek's door roused him from dozing, and he mumbled permission to enter just loud enough for a human to hear. Stiles' nose peeked around the edge of the door a moment later, and Derek smiled as he wormed his way sideways to make room. Taking the invitation, Stiles closed the door behind himself, slipped out of his house shoes, and crawled into the nest of blankets and bedding.

            "Where're your sisters?" he asked as Derek flopped the covers up over them both. "I thought Cora would be in reading to you two."

            Derek wrinkled his nose. Cora had disappeared before dinner, saying she had a _date_ with Isaac, and Laura had made excuses about wanting to let Derek heal. They both knew he was fine; he'd been fine since yesterday afternoon, before Allison and Scott and Lydia had even left the grounds.

            "Out," he said, dragging Stiles up against his chest and nuzzled into the nape of his neck. He smelled good, like a fresh shower with Derek's unscented soaps. He liked when Stiles thought of him like that, minding how much Derek didn't like the artificial, chemical smell of normal human cleansers. "They left me all alone."

            "Oh, please," Stiles said, laughing when Derek nipped at his skin. "It's barely eight o'clock, and you skipped dinner. Someone was just a sleepy puppy wanting a nap!"

            Derek huffed and let out a soft growl, which only set Stiles laughing so hard he was gasping for breath. "You're not very comforting, you know," he said, even though it was clearly a lie. The tension in his body melted a little more as Stiles laughed.

            After a few moments, Stiles rolled over in his arms and wriggled away far enough to look Derek in the eyes. "Sorry," he said earnestly. "You're just adorable when you're indignant." Derek rolled his eyes, and Stiles smiled. "But really, I'm kind of glad your sisters are out."

            "Yeah?" Derek replied, one brow cocking. "Got plans?"

            "No, I just... things have been busy," Stiles said, much more solemn than before. "You've been helping Laura adjust, and helping Cora train for her fights. She did great at her first one."

            "She did amazing," Derek corrected. "But I haven't really been training much with her. Isaac has been keeping an eye on her."

            He must have said the last while making a face, because Stiles let out a little huff of laughter. "You don't approve?"

            Derek sighed. Isaac was a _human_. He didn't know how to explain that to Stiles. "It's not my place to approve or disapprove," he said instead. "She can make her own decisions."

            "You just wish she'd make a different one," Stiles concluded softly.

            "No," Derek replied. "I just wish I felt more comfortable. I don't know enough about Isaac or other humans to really feel okay. It's not her problem. It's mine."

            "Ah," Stiles said. "You probably know more truths about humans than most humans do. We don't like looking in the sort of mirrors that show us our bad sides."

           Derek hummed in agreement, even though he wasn't sure what comfort that was. Before he'd arrived at Stiles' manor, the good side of human beings had been almost unknown to him. Here, though, he was seeing more and more of humans outside of the arena, humans who watched movies and cooked food and celebrated holidays. They had good and they had bad within them, and Derek wondered more than once how different they really were from his own kin.

            "Okay," Stiles said. "We'll just leave it alone for a while."

            "Okay," Derek agreed, pulling Stiles close again. "Did Boyd get back to you yet?"

            Stiles made a noise of affirmation. "He's still looking, but this morning we pulled up last year's Nodstrom's Guide and compared it the last twenty-five years or so. Doesn't look good."

            Nodstrom's Guide, Derek had learned when Stiles was explaining everything they had discovered yesterday, was a huge book which documented all of the supernatural species which were allowed to participate in the arena. As well, it included species that were currently banned from the arena, and contained a section for _restricted or retired_ _game pieces_.

            The retired game pieces section, Stiles had explained, should list the species which either had gone extinct, or had become so endangered that they were removed from arena participation until such time as their population recovered. If the changes were compared over time, even the restricted game pieces - creatures who were allowed to fight only conditionally - should have a story to tell about the trends of supernatural creature preservation.

            "What did you find?" he asked.

            "That we're most likely right," Stiles sighed. "They aren't methodical about it, or at least they haven't been in the last 25 years, but we found at least 6 confirmed cases of species that were removed to threatened status, placed into ARC-run breeding facilities, and then some number of years later disappeared completely."

            "So they're killing us," Derek murmured, stomach sinking. Of course that had been the gist of what Stiles had told him after the meeting the day before, but it was one thing to suspect something and another entirely to see the evidence.

            "They've always been killing you," Stiles said softly. "This is different. This is extermination."

            The word sat heavy and chilling inside of Derek. Extermination. He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead gently against Stiles' to chase the word away, but he knew it was useless. Stiles was right. This, the life of fighting so many of them lived, wasn't a fight at all. They were rats in a barrel, killing each other off until someone threw in the poison to finish the job. The arena was just a flashy distraction to keep the public's eye elsewhere.

            "You know what we're doing, with the sanctuary... it's not going to be enough," Derek told him, tone hushed. It was the first time he had made the suggestion to Stiles, the first time he had let on about his true thoughts.

            "I know," Stiles murmured back. Derek could hear his heart racing.

            "Murdering my way to a sanctuary... that's not a way out. No one else can be allowed to take that path," he continued.

            "I know," Stiles agreed.

           "The others... they're ready for a fight," Derek said slowly, carefully. Stiles tensed a little against him, but then relaxed. "They're ready for a war."

            "Yeah," he said, just as slowly. "I know. I don't know what we're going to do yet, but I- I know it comes down to a fight."

            "Okay," Derek said, surprised at how much relief he felt just knowing that Stiles was already aware of the tensions Derek came up against every time he set foot into an arena holding pen. They knew his name now. They knew when he was going to be at a match, and they spoke now of revolution. "We'll figure it out."

            "Not right now," Stiles said. "I'm tired."

            "It's barely eight o'clock," Derek teased, switching gears and opening his eyes again. He knew it was exhausting thinking about everything they were going to have to take care of in order to succeed. "Now who's the sleepy puppy wanting a nap?"

            "If I say me, can I take a nap in a puppy pile with you?" Stiles asked. Derek could feel his smile against his own lips.

            "I suppose," Derek agreed, snuggling a little tighter against Stiles and closing his eyes. They would deal with everything in the morning. For now, all they had to deal with was how to share the covers.

 

* * *

_Matches must last a minimum of_

_five (5) standard minutes_

* * *

 

            Stiles sat nervously in the warden's box with the seven other wardens who had fighters going into the pit today. Most of them were standing at the back of the box, chatting idly and picking at the small table of finger foods that was always present for them. The woman sitting next to him was watching the fight below with an almost casual disinterest, but Stiles had noticed at the outset of the match that she held herself with just enough tension to say it was her fighter up against Derek right now.

            He couldn't blame her. Derek in his full-shifted form was something else entirely. He was one of the larger full-shift wolves Stiles had ever seen, his stark red eyes standing out from his jet-black fur; fur which was, at the moment, standing up in sticky spikes from all of the blood he'd drawn from the hulking bear shifter across the sands.

            Full-shift fights were rare in Division 2, mainly because it was supposed to be all humanoid fights. At the very least, there were safety arguments involving the equipment. Neither fighter could wear the normal restraints that a humanoid shifter would wear, due to the fact that they were too small for a full-shift.

            They also couldn't wear the same restraints as the creature they shifted into would wear, because they could shift back and slip the too-large restraints. As such, both fighters had to demonstrate the ability to obey commands flawlessly and without restraints in an ARC-monitored test before the day of the match to be certified to participate in full-shift combat.

            It had been a pain in the ass, but Derek had assured him multiple times that being in full shift was a good way to control the spark within him that wanted the power of the alpha shift, and so Stiles had agreed.

            Unfortunately, because the fighters had to enter the arena as humanoids to qualify for Division 2, there was no ear bud Derek could have worn that would stay in through the shift. This left Stiles without the ability to make calls or aid Derek in any way. He was on his own for this fight, and Stiles wasn't sure which one of them was more nervous about it. He suspected it wasn't Derek. So, Stiles had decided to calm his nerves by retreating to the warden's box, a place where he could find both quiet company and the best view in the house. It was much easier to worry when he could see exactly what he needed to worry _about_.

            "Yours is Ashborn, right?" asked the woman next to him, drawing his attention.

            "Yes," Stiles said. "On paper." He didn't mean to sound clipped, and so he forced a charming smile. "Your girl is Snowdrop, right? She's beautiful."

            The woman - Stiles thought he recalled her name was Caitlin - pressed her lips into a tight line before answering. "She looks better without all the blood on her fur."

            "They usually do," Stiles told her, and her gaze flicked up to him. This time, the twitch of his smile was genuine. "They all do, I think." He took a seat beside her, a foot or so away, and looked down to where Derek and Snowdrop clashed together again. In the enclosed glass of the box, Stiles couldn't hear the fight, only the dim echo of the crowd all around them. "It's a shame they have to be put through this."

            "You're brave to say that," Caitlin told him. "But... you're also right. I hate losing fri- fighters."

            "Friends," Stiles said, not letting her slip up go unnoticed.

            She stared at him for a moment, and the shrugged one slim shoulder. "Yeah. They're worth a lot, you know, a lot of money, but they're beautiful and- and intelligent."

            "Now who's brave?" Stiles asked with a smile. Below them, Snowdrop batted Derek into one of the pillars, and Stiles' heart skipped a beat until he saw Derek get up again.

            Caitlin huffed, and looked back to the arena. "Who do you think will win?"

            Stiles let out a slow breath, and shook his head a little. There were a lot of answers he could give, but he couldn't get his conversation with Derek after his last fight out of his head. This was an extermination. If they wanted to stop it, there had to be a fight. Someone had to stand up and do something. Maybe this was where it started, right here in the warden's box.

            "No one," Stiles answered finally. "They certainly don't- one of them dies and one of them has another death on their hands. We don't- one of us loses a friend, and the other gets to wonder when they're next. So... no one." He chanced a glance to Caitlin, and she was very determinedly Not Looking at him. "Maybe the ARC."

            Her nose wrinkled, and Stiles felt the chill of relief course through him to know she felt the same. He wondered if anyone else had ever talked about it like this, if he had missed other conversations like this just by not sitting here with the others. Then her face twisted a little more before smoothing out, and she looked at him.

            "You're right, of course, but there's nothing to do about it," she told him, as though it was a matter of fact. "No matter what we wish to change, that's all it is. Wishing. And that's never done much good here."

            The crowd around them surged in volume, and they both turned their attention back to the fight. Stiles remembered, then, why he sat in the stands; it was so easy to get distracted in the warden's box, and lose track of the fight. He had nearly missed Derek leading Snowdrop in a circle around one of the pillars until he could grab her rear leg and yank it out from under her. Beside him, Caitlin cursed and nearly crushed the match program pamphlet in her hand.

            "And if there were something you could do?" Stiles prompted as Snowdrop rolled onto her back and hauled the still-attached wolf up to her face. "A way to change things?"

            Caitlin turned her gaze back to Stiles, and smiled politely. "Like what, Mr. Stilinski? Send them off to a sanctuary?"

            He couldn't help it, he laughed. He cut the sound short, turning it into a snort of appreciation for her knowledge of his position. Maybe he and Derek had more reach than he'd thought with their project. "Something more," he said quietly. "Something permanent. If you could make the world safe for Snowdrop, for any other friends you might have, what would you do?"

            Again, the crowd's volume increased enough for them to be heard through the thick walls of the warden's box, and they both looked down in time to see Derek's jaws clamp around Snowdrop's neck just as she batted him away from her again. She fell dead to the ground, a gaping hole where her throat had been.

            Beside him, Caitlin covered her mouth, tears jumping to her eyes. She pressed a gloved hand over her mouth to keep a pained noise from escaping.

            "Caitlin," Stiles said quietly, drawing her gently back to the warden's box. He wanted to say that he was sorry, that he wished it could have been different, but she spoke before he could say a word.

            "I would do _anything_ ," she hissed vehemently. "You want to know what I would do to prevent _that_ from happening to her? The answer is _anything_. But I'm one person, Mr. Stilinski. The same as you."

            "And together?" Stiles said. He felt like his chest was being crushed. Whatever Snowdrop had been to this woman was gone now, snuffed out in an instant. It could just as easily have been Derek, and they both knew it. "Do you think we're the only ones sending friends into the pit to die?"

            She stared at him for a long moment, and then looked away, down to where Derek had padded over to Snowdrop's side and thrown his head back in a mournful howl that could be heard over the hushed chatter of the crowd. Supers didn't mourn death, not in the view of humans, and yet that was what Derek was doing as the announcer gave the win to Stiles.

            "No," she said finally. "I know we're not. But I also know that no one will step forward against the ARC. Not alone."

            Her jaw clenched, and she got to her feet. He followed suit, moving so that she had a clear path to the exit if she wanted. For a second, she hesitated, then gave a shake of her head. When she spoke, it came out strangled, wrapped up in tears she wasn't going to shed in front of him.

            "Her name was Emily," she told him quietly. "And I will still fight for her, if you decide to put your money where your mouth is. Now, please excuse me. I have paperwork and a redbox to pick up."

            With that, she turned and left him standing by himself in the warden's box, the other wardens oblivious to their exchange. He let out the breath he hadn't realize he'd been holding, and scrubbed a hand over the soft buzz of his hair. Derek, it seemed, was not the only one surrounded by high tension. He wondered, as he turned to look to the others still gathered at the food, how many of them felt the same.

            How many, he thought as he excused himself from the warden's box, would join him if it came to a fight?

 

* * *

_Drawn matches may be rescheduled_

_at the hosting Arena's discretion_

* * *

 

            The muffled sound of a vacuum filtered into the main hallway from the pen in front of Stiles. In a folding lounge chair to his left sat Kali, her feet kicked up on one of the stools from her kitchenette. There was a bowl of grapes and berries nestled on her lap, and she was plucking pieces from it and popping them into her mouth. Erica leaned against the open door of her enclosure, relaxed but ready as she waited for Boyd and Isaac to finish cleaning the pen.

            Stiles was almost certain that Kali wouldn't try anything; there wasn't any point. All the doors to the outside locked down while a pen door was opened, and the pens couldn't be registered as closed again without a code only the humans knew. Still, it never hurt to take precautions with her.

            "I saw Blake the other day," Stiles commented, drawing Kali's sidelong attention. "When I took Derek in to get registered for a full-shift fight. She was the one who oversaw it."

            "She's a committee member now?" Kali asked. It might have sounded like an idle inquiry if Stiles hadn't known better. There was little in the world that interested Kali more than what Jennifer Blake was doing.

            "Guess so," Stiles said.

            He had known since Boyd had pointed it out at their meeting, but he hadn't had a chance to tell Kali yet. The last time either of them had seen Jennifer, she had been a warden in the process of signing Kali over to Stiles' possession four years ago. At the time, he had assumed it was because she had gotten too close to Kali and didn't want to be caught. Now, he wondered if she had given up her small stable of fighters in order to concentrate on getting the open committee position.

            Beside him, Kali reclined in her chair and popped a grape into her mouth. "You know what happened," she said idly. "Between her and I."

            "Yeah," Stiles confirmed, low and soft. He knew it was still a sore subject for her; she had, after all, loved Jennifer.

            "Then you know they're testing you, little warden," she told him. "She wasn't there to watch your pet. She was there to watch you, and she'll know exactly what every look you gave him meant."

            "She didn't see anything," Stiles replied, a little more hotly than he intended. "It was a professional arena certification, not a character assessment."

            "You don't think she was watching you?" Kali asked, glancing askance at him. He hated the little smile that played on her lips, smug and knowing. "If you set foot into her realm with that pup at your heel, she has your number. I guarantee it. Jen was nothing if not sharp."

            Stiles sighed, and scrubbed a hand down his face before practically flopping back in his chair. "I know," he admitted. "But I don't think she'll say anything. To the others."

            "No," Kali agreed, plucking a strawberry from her bowl and taking a slow bite of it, licking her lips clean afterward. She gave Stiles another smug smile. "I'm all the threat you'll ever need to keep her mouth shut against you. The cards in this game you're playing have been particularly well-dealt in your favor."

            "You don't think she'll go after Derek?" Stiles asked, rolling his head to look at Kali again.

            Kali's smile faded slowly, and when it return there was no smugness left. She seemed almost sad. "Still pretending you care about what happens to him?"

            "I do care," Stiles told her.

            "She used to say the same thing," Kali replied. The anger Stiles remembered from when she arrived at his facility was no longer present. It ached to hear the resignation that had replaced it.

            Stiles stared for a moment, and then dropped his gaze, sweeping it over to look into her enclosure instead. "You still love her," he said. "Even after all this time, after everything that happened. Even after she abandoned you. Even after you found someone else."

            Kali's shoulder dropped a little, and she flicked a grape at Stiles' head. Then she looked over at Ennis' pen, beside her own. Stiles had long ago unlocked the gate that separated the two. She gave a little shake of her head. "If you love someone, Warden, and I mean for real... you never stop. You might hate them, or get mad at them, or walk away from them forever. But once you give them that little piece of you that loves them, it's gone for good. You don't get it back."

            A commotion inside the pen stopped Stiles from saying anything in response, and Kali rolled off her chair and to her feet. Erica shouldered away from the wall and stepped out of the doorway as Isaac and Boyd appeared from within the false front of the house. Boyd was laden with boxes stacked inside of boxes, chemical bottles filling up the innermost one. Isaac was carrying the rest of the cleaning supplies.

            "All done, Boss," Isaac said as they exited the enclosure.

            "Good talk," Kali said to Stiles, and the smugness was back. "Say hi to her, when she comes to try her luck with you next time." With that, Kali disappeared into the now-clean house, leaving Stiles to consider how much trouble he might actually have on his hands after his encounter with Committee Member Blake.

 

* * *

_Opposing game pieces shall be kept_

_on opposite sides of an arena_

_until their match commences_

* * *

 

            Derek sat pressed against an arena-side corner of the holding pen, listening to the echo of the crowd. Earlier, the fighter in the next pen over had tried to talk to him, but he couldn’t bring himself to hold a conversation. He never wanted to be here again, facing the pit and knowing he would have to take another life, but this time was worse.

            His previous fight had been in full-shift, but when he had met the other fighter at the center of the sands, she had _apologized_ to him. She had told him that she wouldn’t kill him, but that she could not go down without a fight. She had a lover in the stands, and she couldn’t be seen as giving up her life, but she couldn’t take hope away from the other fighters, either.

            Again and again, she had batted him harmlessly away from her, bellowing at him to finish this, unwilling to fight properly. Derek could feel the hobgoblin’s blood on his hands, see it cowering in front of him all over again, unwilling to hurt him. The memory was so stark, so overwhelming, that it felt like the world was closing up around him, swallowing him into the past.

            It wasn’t until she swatted him to the ground and pressed both of her massive paws into his chest so that he could barely breathe, that he managed to pull himself together. She gave him one good, hard shove, hissing at him to do her no dishonor, and then she let him up.

            The red of blood on her snow-white fur had haunted him for days afterward.

            If he hadn’t been so close to finishing this, if he and Stiles had a more concrete plan, maybe he would have refused to come here today. As it was, this was his last Division 2 fight. After this, the contract would move to Division 1, and that was when the real publicity began. Division 1, Stiles had told him, was where the humans would start to learn his name properly. If they were going to succeed in anything, they would need at least some of the humans on their side.

            So he was here again, working up the strength required of him to step out onto the sands, to take one more life. He didn’t have the strength leftover to hold conversations, to make friends with someone else, whether or not there was a chance they would die today.

            He scrambled to his feet when the gate behind him began to open and the sound of the announcer declaring the incoming fighters filtered in. In the next pen over, he heard the soft _may your sands be red, Ashborn_ from the satyr, and then he was stepping into the arena.

            Across the sand, he could see the wolf he was supposed to fight exiting her holding pen. She was beautiful, with bronze skin and dark hair and darker eyes. She approached him coolly, her features staying fully human, and so he tamped down on his own shift. As she neared him, she held up both her hands, palms facing him to show that she would not attack without speaking first.

            He nodded, assenting to talk, and a smile spread on her lips. "Ashborn," she greeted, head dipping in an almost deferential bow. "From where I hail, there is always talk of fighting. Now, the others do not speak of fighting themselves. They speak of fighting the humans. Now, the others speak of freedoms they have never dared dream of until now. I understand you have brought this hope to them."

            He struggled to remember the more formal speech and body language she used, in the tongue of wolves rather than the common tongue of the pit. His mother had taught it to him when he was very young, and he remembered practicing it with the wolf across the hall from him at the Argent estate. The werewolf before him now was either very old, very old-fashioned, or very serious about what she was telling him.

            "You speak kindly," Derek said, head dipping in acknowledgement of her praise. The crowd above them sounded off, nervous almost. This was not the typical beginning of a fight. As Stiles hadn't asked what was going on, Derek assumed he could hear the other wolf, even if he couldn't understand her.

            "I speak truth," she replied. Drawing in a deep breath, she rose to her full height. "I knew your mother, Talia. She was willing to risk her life to save her children. In the world, somewhere, there are six children who carry my blood, and I can do no less for them."

            She reached out her right arm, and laid her palm on the cusp of Derek's shoulder, clasping it gently. He swallowed, raising his own right arm to return the gesture. It was a sign of respect he had not seen in many years, not since his mother had been alive. It was also the offer of a contract, a request.

            "My name is Kitara, from the Norman Perth facility," she said to him. "Today, I shall lay down my life for you, Ashborn, that you may lead our people free of this atrocity we have called our fate for so long. In return, I ask that you remember my name, and speak well of it, should you find any of my children."

            By the look on her face, Derek knew there was no arguing. Chest and throat tight, he nodded and drew himself up straighter. It was his talk with the others in the holding pens that had lead to the hope in her eyes and the steel resolution in her voice. This offer - her death - was on his hands before he'd even drawn a drop of blood.

            "I accept your trade," he said softly. "I will not forget you, your last gift, or your last wish. Should I encounter your blood, I shall honor you. Go in peace, Kitara."

            "May the sands be long behind you," she said. His eyes widened at the alteration of the usual good-luck offering.

            Then she shoved him backward, her alpha shift overtaking her, and he was forced to follow suit the instant before she barreled into him. Against his ribs, her fingertips were soft and human, and he knew that she would barely draw blood this fight. They had but a few minutes to wait until the tone sounded the five minute mark, and then she would offer him an opening.

            She would give her life to him, on the slimmest of chances that he might be able to someday free her children.

            As he shoved her off of him with both feet, he wondered if he would be able to keep that promise.

 

* * *

  _Failure to present registration at the_

_quarantine facility within that time period_

_will result in the sale or destruction of the game piece_

* * *

 

            He lay curled up in the center of his den, Cora and Laura both draped in a protective cocoon around him. He could feel Laura's hand stroking soothing lines down his back, and Cora had her nose in the crook of his neck, murmuring reassurances into his shoulder. Though he had washed, scrubbed and scoured at his skin, he knew they could still smell Kitara's blood on him. They could certainly smell his distress.

            "She sacrificed herself," he murmured against Cora's shoulder. She stiffened, and he could hear Laura's heartbeat quicken. He hadn't spoken about what happened yet, just sank down into the comfort of _pack_. "The wolf I fought today. She didn't fight me, not for real. Never put her claws out once."

            "Why?" Laura asked, barely a breath. He felt the words more than heard them.

            "Because she thought we were starting a war," Derek said. He gave a little shake of his head. "She said she wanted freedom for her children."

            "So did our mother," Cora said. "I'd rather have my mother."

            "Hush, Cora," Laura reprimanded. Cora pressed her nose more tightly to Derek's shoulder submissively. "If Talia hadn't done what she did, none of us would be here now. You'd be in a breeding facility, or auctioned off as Division 1 or 2 fodder. Derek would still be chained up in the Argent dungeon. I'd be... feral," she said, stumbling a little on the last word.

            "I know," mumbled Cora sullenly.

            "Every time I'm in the pens, the others talk about fighting back," Derek said. "Like it's going to be a revolution."

            "Or a war," Cora added. "They talk to me, too."

            "And me," Laura agreed. She coiled a little tighter around her younger siblings. "Maybe that really is where this is all heading."

            "Battle?" Derek asked, heart thudding hard in his chest. It was one thing to talk about fighting back against the humans, and another completely to ever actually do it. They were so outnumbered, starting from such a place of disadvantage, that it would be a slaughter.

            "Maybe," Laura said. "They've spent a lot of years backing us into a corner, if what Stiles says is true. I don't want to be exterminated so... maybe it's time to fight back."

            Derek opened his eyes, looking down at where his hands were clutched together in front of his chest, cradled between him and Cora. He couldn't see the blood anymore, but he could feel it. He was tired of that blood coming from his own kind. He was tired of killing his comrades, his friends, his people. He just wasn't sure more death was the answer.

            He had sworn to Kitara that he would speak her name to her children. He couldn't do that if they died in a war.

            "Maybe," he said quietly.

            Then again, maybe Laura was right. Maybe there wasn't going to be a choice.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks are owed to the folks who beta read chapter 10 for me! Thank you to [Redbirdblogs](http://redbirdblogs.tumblr.com), [Broodingsoul](http://broodingsoul.tumblr.com), [Resiliencefa](http://Resiliencefa.tumblr.com), and [Yeahwecantgoback](yeahwecantgoback.tumblr.com)! You folks put in a lot of awesome work :)
> 
> As always, a huge thank you to [Elin](http://firecracker452.tumblr.com) for all the time she puts in listening to me have nervous breakdowns about plot and characters and for doing emergency reading of scenes at 3am. I really appreciate it!

 

 

* * *

  _Arena venues may not hold Division 1 matches_

_more than one (1) day per three (3) months_

* * *

 

            The waiting area of the administrative building was packed with people, from parents with a pair of grade school children to a woman on her own who looked to be well into her nineties. Stiles was leaning against one of the walls, flipping through the printed pages he had brought outlining the standard Division 1 contract guidelines. Normally these contracts would be drawn up in a one-on-one or two-on-one meeting with the state's main ARC representative, but this was hardly going to be normal.

            Due to his circumstances, Stiles knew they were going to want to make changes. He just wasn't sure what sort, or what areas of the contract they would try to modify, though he had more than a few good guesses. There were dozens of copies of the standard contract in his bedroom, all with different possible alterations highlighted. All of his friends had been working hard trying to figure out what the ARC would be most likely to change.

            For one, he doubted the contract would be for only four fights. Talia's had been for six, and she had come so close to surviving them that the ARC probably wouldn't feel comfortable letting Derek off as easy. There was a good chance they would also try to crunch his match dates close together, or spread them so far it would take years, in the hopes that Stiles would give up or that Derek would get rusty.

            Additionally, he would have to face the entire ARC, or as many of them as could be present at this time. Given what they had been uncovering about the ARC-of-old, he didn't think any of the current members were going to be amenable to his demands. His biggest fear, one Boyd had so helpfully given him just the night before, was that the ARC would flat out refuse to give him any leeway. There was a chance that whatever contract they put into his hands would be an all-or-nothing deal.

            So, even though they had done all the preparation Stiles could possibly stand, he still felt like it wasn't enough. The ARC was going to try _something_ , and it bothered him that he couldn't know _what_ until he got into the room with them. It made him feel slightly better just to flip through the pages of the standard contract again to distract himself, looking for places they might draw new lines. He tried not to fidget too noticeably and reminded himself that it never hurt to be early to appointments with the ARC.

            A few more minutes passed before a sharply-dressed young woman exited the solid, wooden door at the far end of the lobby. She had one arm wrapped around a clipboard and an expensive pen in her hand. She looked as if she probably ran this facility and that it was her business to know every soul that crossed her entryway. Stiles was not at all surprised when she walked over to him directly instead of calling his name.

            "Warden Stilinski," she said curtly. "Come with me."

            He folded the contract papers as he followed her back across the room and through the heavy door. On the other side, two guards stood stiffly at attention, their eyes tracking Stiles for a few paces before switching back to the main room. What was allowed past their domain was clearly not their business. Stiles hurried to keep pace with the woman leading him down the hall.

            "You've been here once before," she said, either not noticing or not caring that he had lagged behind.

            "Yes," Stiles confirmed, even though it hadn't really been a question. "My first Division 1 contract was a few years ago."

            "Seven years ago," she told him. "I won't waste time explaining the procedures to you then. I expect you remember."

            "Yes, ma'am," he said, hoping he could. They turned a corner and she led him through two more doors before stopping in front of a double door.

            "You have thirty minutes with the committee, Warden Stilinski," she informed him, ticking off something on her clipboard. "I will return then to escort you back to the lobby. Do not leave without an escort and do not keep me waiting."

            "Yes, ma'am," he repeated. She looked him over once, and then turned and pulled the door open for him without another word. He nodded thanks to her, and slipped through the doorway.

            Inside, the room was large, though it was mostly filled with shelves that curved in a semi-circle around the center of the room. Each shelf had little speakers affixed in front of small blue boxes, behind which were glassy monitors. In those myriad monitors, Stiles could see the faces of the council members watching him as he crossed to the middle of the room and took a seat. In front of him was a small table, upon which sat another screen, this one full of text. It was a digital copy of his impending contract, able to be edited before printing.

            "Good evening, Warden Stilinski," greeted a clear voice from front-and-center of the rows of monitors. He flicked his gaze up and read the plaque in front of him: _Meredith Armand_. She was the leader of the committee, the head honcho. She was also, Allison had informed him, from a very long line of hunters.

            "Good evening, Member Armand," he greeted in return, dipping his head slightly. "Glad so many of you could make it." Only a few of the monitors were dark, which meant that most of the main council was actually listening in on the proceedings.

            "Your case is... of interest," Meredith told him. "You're familiar with the standard Division 1 contract, we assume?"

            "Yes," Stiles confirmed. "Though you've made changes."

            "You haven't even looked," she said, but she smiled. "But you are correct, Warden. You still desire to fulfill the main contract, and to get your game piece released to the care of a retirement sanctuary?"

            "Yes," he stated, already feeling prickly. "What hoops do you want me to jump through to do that?"

            "Hoops?" she scoffed, though she offered no other correction. "You must only fulfill the contract before you. Your game piece must champion twelve Division 1 matches and-"

            "Twelve?" Stiles interrupted, incredulous. "The standard contract is four matches."

            "Well, your game piece is hardly standard, is it?" she asked, head tipping just a fraction of an inch. "If we understand correctly, you went through quite a lot of trouble in order to procure a certain bloodline over others. A very successful bloodline, if we recall."

            Stiles swallowed, knowing exactly what she was implying. They knew that he had hunted down Talia's bloodline, and that he was trying to fulfill the same contract she'd had. Except this time, they were prepared. This time, there would be no lenience.

            "Twelve seems excessive," Stiles said firmly, raising his chin in defiance. "Are you scared of giving my game piece a chance?"

            Her lips pressed into a thin line. "We are frightened of nothing, Warden," she told him. "But you can understand that once you reach Division 1 with a humanoid, and news of your contract reaches the public ear - as we all know it will - that you will become... shall we say, a sensation."

            "You're concerned about money?" Stiles asked, needling. They had to know it sounded like a stretch. "I wasn't aware funds were so tight for the ARC that you would need to extort one fighter's winnings."

            Murmurs filtered through the other monitors, and a few screens down from Meredith's, an older man spoke up. "We would suggest you not speak so crassly about the committee." His nameplate read _Killian Jenkins_.

            "Please excuse my boldness," Stiles said dryly. "But if you sign my game piece for twelve matches, I will not be the only one thinking such things. Eight, which is a double contract, is both more standard _and_ more reasonable."

            Silence descended over the room, even though Stiles could see everyone's mouths moving. They had cut him out of the conversation to discuss this among themselves. He folded his hands on the table and tried to calm his racing heart. The ARC was not exactly keen on being told what to do. They were generally the ones handing out instructions.

            Finally, Meredith turned her attention fully back to Stiles. "We are agreed to eight matches," she said.

            "Are there other alterations?"

            "Yes," Meredith said immediately. "In exchange for granting fewer fights, this committee, or a derivative thereof, shall determine your last four opponents."

            Blackness crept in around the edges of Stiles' vision as his heartbeat sped up, but he merely straightened in his seat. They wanted to choose which supers Derek came up against, and there was no way they were going to pick fights Derek had a good chance at winning. All it would take was one ridgeback with a neural net and it would be game over for all of them. A chill trickled down his spine as he realized he and his friends had been correct.

            The ARC had never intended to let Derek live.

            He was suddenly very glad that he and the others were so on top of ferreting out the truth about who controlled the ARC. It wasn't that he didn't believe Allison, about the committee being mostly hunters or at least hunter-controlled, but here was the proof he'd needed. Here was the committee telling him in not so many words that they meant to see Derek killed.

            There was no way he could let it get as far as those last four fights. Though he didn't know what yet, something would have to be done to stop it from getting that far. For now, he needed to make it through this meeting.

            "Agreed," he said, and there was a soft whirr from the machine in front of him as it altered the contract to include their new terms. "What other changes?"

            "The last six fights shall be fought at different All-Division arenas," Meredith said tersely. "Which should have been half your fights."

            Stiles clenched his jaw for a moment. The six All-Division arenas were difficult to get into when they held matches, as they had the biggest payouts of any arena in the country. He had no illusions that the ARC would help him schedule matches in a timely manner. It could be half a year or more between those last matches. But, he reminded himself that he had no intention of letting this go on for that long.

            "Agreed," he said. "Those arenas are lovely places to visit. Perhaps you can all come out personally to see us there."

            "Unlikely," Meredith said, but she smiled for the first time. "Do you have any special requests, Warden?"

            "The contract includes the terms of our prior contract?" he asked. "If Ashborn champions eight Division 1 matches, I will be given the option to release my game piece to the retirement sanctuary?"

            "Yes," Meredith said. The machine whirred and the display changed so that Stiles could see the page upon which those terms were stated. He began to skim them as she continued. "On a personal note, Mr. Stilinski, you understand that if you release your game piece to the sanctuary, you also relinquish any rights you may have over said game piece? If the sanctuary staff decide to remove Ashborn from the sanctuary and turn him into a game piece once more, the rules will not be on your side to stop it."

            "I understand, ma'am," Stiles said. "That's why I will have other contracts with them upon Ashborn's surrender."

            "You're awfully confident your little game piece will see the other side," she stated blandly.

            "Yes Ma'am. I didn't get where I am today by being meek," he agreed, then looked up to meet her eyes. "The contract is sound. I agree to your terms."

            "Any committee member who has an objection to Warden Stilinski's terms or alterations should speak now," Meredith said. A few short seconds passed and then: "The Arena Regulatory Committee agrees to your terms. The contract is forged. Once signed, it will be sealed and considered legally binding."

            Stiles nodded as the machine began to print the pages into a tray on top of the table. As soon as it was finished, Stiles pulled the warm sheets off onto the table's surface and started signing all the necessary lines. When he finished, he put the pages back into the tray, and the machine took the pages back in and spit them out into a second tray, copied and stamped with the official seal of the ARC.

            "Thank you, Committee," Stiles said as he sorted his own copy of the contract into a neat pile to take with him.

            "Good luck, Warden Stilinski," Meredith said.

            Somehow, Stiles didn't think she meant it.

 

* * *

_Humanoid game pieces used in Division 1_

_must be older than relative age twenty-one (21)_

* * *

 

            Exhaustion tugged at Stiles' eyelids by the time he reached his bedroom. He laid Derek's Division 1 contract on the messy desk and shrugged out of his white suit coat. It fit perfectly when he draped it over the back of his chair, and he promised himself he would take proper care of it in the morning. He'd had a long day, flying out to the main ARC headquarters in order to draw up the contract and flying back the same day just because he hated to be away alone.

            Tomorrow, he was going to have to talk to even more people, which only added to his sense of exhaustion. He already had a security system and cameras in the barn, but he wanted more. However, as much as he wanted to immediately hire some kind of security personnel to monitor them, or someone to watch his back, it would take a lot of thorough digging before he could possibly feel comfortable trusting that someone new couldn't be paid to look the other way.

            For now, he just wanted to everything to be quiet and stand still for a while. Everyone else was already asleep, or at least if they weren't, they were in their rooms with all of the lights off. Harvelle had left him a covered platter of dinner in the fridge - _just in case,_ read the note. Stiles couldn't even remember what the meal was, despite having heated it up and eaten it. Now, he mostly just wanted to go to sleep for three days.

            There was a gentle knock at his door just as he was blearily unbuttoning his dress shirt, and he crossed back to the door to open it. Derek was standing there, head tipped a little and hands shoved into the pockets of the black hoodie Stiles had gotten him the second month he'd lived there. It had a howling wolf silhouette in silver on the front, which Stiles had thought was awesome at the time but seemed a little silly now. Regardless, it made him smile.

            "Welcome back," Derek said. "I thought you weren't going to be home until tomorrow?"

            "Yeah, well," Stiles said with a tired smile as he opened the door wider in silent invitation. "I don't really like sleeping away from home if I don't have to. I thought you were asleep?"

            "While you were foraging for leftovers, you knocked over six pots," Derek told him as he crossed the threshold. Stiles snorted and closed the door behind him. "I might have slept through five."

            "Mhmm," Stiles said, not believing it for a second. He moved closer so that Derek couldn't get further into the room without touching him. Derek took the hint immediately, wrapping his arms around Stiles and pulling him in tight. "This is really why I came home."

            "To wake me up at three in the morning breaking the kitchen?" Derek teased, nosing in for a quick kiss. "To get me out of bed?"

            "Yes, exactly," Stiles agreed sleepily. "Wait... no. Not out..."

            Derek huffed a soft laugh, and began undoing the final three buttons of Stiles' shirt. "Okay, then," he said gently. "How about we get _in_ bed instead?"

            Nodding, Stiles did his best to help Derek help him out of his remaining clothing and into a pair of loose pajamas. Then he allowed himself to be herded into the bed and under the covers, until he had Derek wrapped up around him, head tucked under Stiles' chin. An ache settled in Stiles' chest.

            Derek was supposed to be _protected_ within these four walls. He should be _safe_ here, in this room, laid out along Stiles' side as though he belonged there.

            Yet Stiles had signed papers that could end Derek's life. _He_ was part of what made the world unsafe.

            "We should stop," Stiles said, struggling back to full consciousness. Beside him, Derek stiffened. "Not this!" Stiles rushed to assure him. "I mean... fighting. You should stop."

            "That's what we're doing," Derek said, relaxing into his side once more. "Just a few more fights."

            "No," Stiles said, the ache in his chest turning to crushing pressure. He couldn't let Derek fight. He couldn't let Derek be killed. "They'll find a way to kill you, if you go back into the pit."

            At that, Derek propped himself up on one elbow to look at Stiles. "What happened?"

            Stiles closed his eyes so that he wouldn't have to see Derek. "I signed your Division 1 contract today."

            "I know," Derek told him. "That's why you were gone. I know that."

            "No, I mean-" Stiles began, but cut himself off. He didn't know how to explain everything he felt, how much he didn't want to lose Derek. "They want you for eight fights, and they want to pick the last four fighters. They'll do their best to pick things that will kill you, or do it themselves, just like your mom."

            "They didn't know, at the Hale Facility," Derek said soothingly. "They weren't alert. They weren't expecting anything like what happened. We are. Or at least, we're trying to be."

            "We should just stop," Stiles repeated. He knew it was weak, knew how it sounded, but he was tired and scared. "I can take you out to the sanctuary, you and Cora and Laura, and you can all just get out. Be free, and safe, and-"

            "There is no _safe_ , Stiles," Derek said firmly, reaching up to put a palm on Stiles' jaw to get him to look at him. "You signed that contract today, which means we're in trouble no matter what we do. If we back out, the ARC knows something is up and they take immediate action. You take us to that sanctuary, they'll just have us hunted down. And besides, what happens to the others if we give up?"

            "They die," Stiles said, not currently up to having to face that part of the equation. He pulled his jaw from Derek's grasp. He knew what Derek was trying to do. He also knew Derek was right.

            "I can't let that happen," Derek reminded Stiles. "I brought them hope... I can't be responsible for taking that away without a fight. And Stiles? They're ready to fight. The others are... they're talking about fighting back."

            "Fighting back? Like, fighting the ARC?" Stiles asked.

            Derek shifted uncomfortably, and Stiles got the distinct impression that he was uncertain whether or not he should be talking about it. Their differences - human and super, fighter and warden - yawned between them for a moment, menacing and scary before Derek cleared his throat. "Yeah, sort of," he admitted. "But, not just the ARC. In the holding pens, they talk about revolution. War. They're just waiting."

            "For what?" Stiles asked, carefully.

            He wondered how long this had been spreading that it had been able to go far enough to come back to Derek in the holding pens. Of course they had talked about having the cooperation of the other supernatural creatures, but this was different.

            "Me, mostly," Derek said. "They know what I'm doing. They know if I fail, the ARC won't give you another chance. Maybe not anyone, and definitely not soon- there's fifteen years between me and my mom. They're all sick of what's being done to them. You know they won't just lie down if something happens to me, don't you?"

            Stiles' mind was already ticking over what it would mean if the supers started a war. It was obvious, the more he thought about it. Of course they would fight back after they'd been given hope; he just expected that they would organize within the arena. Derek was talking about a complete revolt, and this was the first Stiles had heard of it.

            Stiles sighed, wishing Derek had felt comfortable coming to talk about this before now. All he'd usually said on the subject was that the supers were on their side. He'd said that they would be willing to follow his directions. But the supers had been given hope, shown a path that didn't involve fighting each other. Now that they had that, they couldn't back out, or run away. There was only one viable choice; fight back against their oppressors, and hope they had what it would take to win.

            "It's the obvious choice for them," Stiles said.

            "It's dangerous," Derek told him, softer now. "You said so yourself. Our lives are always dangerous. But you know how this ends for _everyone_ if we just give up. Without us, there will be a war, or else they'll just keep putting supers into the pit until there's nothing left. Either way, all my people die."

            "You don't think they'd win a war?" Stiles asked softly.

            Derek gave him a look that said he knew that Stiles knew better. "I'm not going to kid myself. They're in such a bad position right now, so alone, that there's no way they'd win. So, for now, until we have a different plan, one that doesn't involve starting a war, this is what we have to do."

            "You're right," Stiles sighed, resigned.

            He didn't like the idea of putting Derek back into the pit with even more dangerous supers than before, but he knew an all-out war would be worse. Far more people would be hurt if a war began, especially if it was a war born of unplanned chaos. He'd heard enough dissent amongst the human side of things that maybe something could be done, if they could buy some time with Derek's fights.

            He forced another sigh, and wriggled enough that he could push Derek onto his back and sprawl halfway on top of him. "I just... wish it could be different."

           "We'll make it different," Derek promised him with a small smile. He leaned up to kiss Stiles on the nose. "Tomorrow, though. Okay?"

            "Okay," Stiles agreed, slipping off of Derek so that he could lay beside him instead. Tomorrow was a better idea. Tomorrow, things could be different. Tonight, there was only sleep.

 

* * *

_Non-humanoid game pieces may not weigh below 75%_

_of the average adult weight for their species_

* * *

 

            Stiles stood at the entrance of the manor's front room, watching the plethora of children that were in it set up sleeping bags under the supervision of three chaperoning parents. There had been talk of setting up tents indoors until one of the younger kids pointed out that there wouldn't be much room to do stuff if there were tents all over the place. The kids were currently creating a circle out of their bedding, at the instruction of one particularly bossy young girl, _so we can do stuff_.

            "I can't believe you forgot," Lydia said from beside Stiles. She passed him a warm mug of coffee, and Stiles tried not to yawn too obviously before thanking her. "This was your idea."

            "Slipped my mind," Stiles said, taking a sip of the beverage. It was still a little too hot, but the burn was almost pleasant. "Derek and I have been training with the others. His first fight's in less than a month and he's still got a lot to learn."

            "Ah," Lydia said, though Stiles was certain she was teasing him silently. "Still trying to get Derek killed."

            He scowled at her, but she didn't look apologetic at all. "I'm not trying-" He held up a hand to stop himself, and took a deep breath. "Derek will be fine. Danny already scheduled his fight with a little Darter dragon, and he also already chastised me like a little kid about letting Derek fight despite everything we know."

            "Like how you agreed to let the ARC choose opponents?" Lydia asked innocently.

            Stiles scowled. He wasn't sure how much he liked Lydia being friends with Danny. "Isn't there supposed to be some kind of client-booker confidentiality?"

            "Pretty sure that's doctors," Lydia said. "Anyway, you shouldn't be keeping secrets. You're going to need all the friends you can get if you want to make it through this. You'll need even more than that if you want to get Derek out."

            "I know," Stiles said, resigned. "That's why I didn't cancel this."

            "This?" she said, motioning to the children that were starting to settle onto their sleeping bags. "This is your grand plan?"

            Stiles grinned. "Couldn't miss Warden Stilinski's Annual Supernatural Lock-In, could we? The kids have been signed up since last year. We're going to need public support, and this is as good a place as any to start changing their minds about supers."

            Lydia's face went a little pale. "Oh please tell me you're not going to let them-"

            Even as she said it, Erica appeared at the far side of the room, dressed in full handler gear. Boyd and Isaac flanked her, dressed similarly, obviously ready to work with the supers in Stiles' stable. "Hey!" Erica called.

            "You're going to take them into the stable and let your supers out," Lydia stated incredulously. "You've completely lost it."

            Stiles flashed her a smile before turning his attention to Erica again. "Ready for the tour?"

            "All set!" she chimed cheerfully. "We opened the practice ring in the basement, cleared the elevator, and rechecked the observation room for any safety concerns. Not that you'll actually need it."

            "Thank you," Stiles said, clapping his hands together in front of him. His handlers moved to the side when he took a step forward, spreading his hands for everyone's attention. "Good evening, folks! Hello, kids."

            "Hello, Mister Stiles," they all greeted in unison. Someone had to have been practicing with them, which made Stiles smile.

            "It's very good to see all of you, some of you again for another year! We still have an hour or two before dinner is ready, so I'm going to take you all down to someplace _very_ special- my stable! Who wants to see a dragon?"

            All the children erupted into cheers, and though the chaperones looked slightly nervous, they began collecting the children into walking order. Stiles grinned broadly, and began directing everyone toward the exit. It was a little like herding cats, but eventually they managed to make it to the great outdoors. It was only Erica and Boyd's patience that somehow saw all of the children moved out to the barn.

            "I've handled worse," Erica commented as the last of the kids disappeared after Boyd and Isaac into the barn.

            Stiles shot her a dry look, and she burst into laughter as she followed him in. "Boyd!" Stiles called. "Can you get them settled into the observation room? Erica and I are going to bring Negira down."

            "Sure thing, Boss," Boyd called back. He and the rest of the group disappeared around the corner and a moment later, Stiles heard the elevator begin to descend.

            Erica tipped a non-existent hat to Stiles, and left him there alone so she could fetch the elevator back up after it had been unloaded of its charges. She knew as well as he did that he didn't need any help moving Negira.

            After Erica was out of sight, Stiles unlocked the large door to Negira's pen. She was already sitting coiled around the base of one of the trees, watching him with glowing red eyes. He held up one hand, palm out, and smiled. "Come on, sweetie," he murmured. "Time to show the kiddies your soft side."

            She murmured unintelligibly at him as she uncoiled and got to her feet. A moment later the scarred tip of her snout pressed into his hand, and he scrubbed his nails over the smooth scales of her face. She leaned into the touch, and when he pulled away to exit the pen, she followed at his heel like a well-trained horse.

            Erica greeted them at the elevator, and Negira pushed her whole head into Erica's chest, cooing and chirping quietly. Erica laughed and began giving Negira's face a good hard scrub with both hands as Stiles closed the elevator doors. "You're such a good girl," she told the dragon. "Everyone's favorite, for sure."

            When the elevator dinged at the bottom, Erica exited first, checking the room for any stray humans. Boyd waved from across the room to signal it was clear, and then Stiles positioned himself at Negira's shoulder. "Okay, Pretty. Best behavior!"

            Though he couldn't hear the gasps or the chatter from the children, he could see the moment they spotted Negira, because they all got up from their chairs and pressed their noses to the glass of the observation room's huge window. Isaac abandoned his post at the door beside Boyd to meet them halfway across the room. He fell into step on the same side as Stiles, so that there was one handler on either side of Negira. Lydia stayed inside the observation room amongst the visiting group, talking to them as they watched Stiles and the handlers lead Negira.

            They stopped a decent distance from the observation room, in the middle of the high-ceilinged practice room. This was where Stiles and Derek had been practicing fighting moves against larger creatures, holograms cast by the projector on the ceiling. Soon he would bring Negira down to train with him, but for now the holograms were enough.

            "This is Negira," he said, projecting. The speakers in the room would amplify his voice enough. "She is a Southern Ridgeback dragon, and I have had her since I hatched her egg myself. She is one of the tamest dragons you'll ever meet."

            He glanced to Lydia, who was still seated in the middle of the room. She'd come along to witness the train wreck she thought was about to occur, and he was looking forward to seeing the expression on her face when there wasn't one. With one hand, she motioned for him to continue, and he knew that she thought she was aware of what came next. He grinned.

            "Now... who wants to pet her?" he asked.

            Even through the glass, Stiles could hear the uproar as the kids all shouted at once. Stiles motioned to Boyd, who opened the door and started talking to the kids until they quieted. Whatever he said, they calmed and began to get into a single-file line. One of the chaperones had attached herself to Lydia's side and Stiles could see she had started asking questions while the other two walked to put themselves between the kids and the exit.

            One little girl, however, the one who had been instructing everyone on precisely how to arrange their sleeping bags, slipped around the legs of one of the men, and before they could stop her, she was halfway across the room. Stiles turned around, letting Erica intercept the child while he directed Negira down, to lie on the ground and put her head by his feet so that she was not as intimidating.

            "What's your name?" Erica asked as Negira settled and refolded her wings more comfortably.

            "Addison," the girl said, throwing a look over her shoulder to the chaperones. Boyd had stopped them and was talking to them, gesturing toward Stiles and Negira. Addison turned to look up at Erica. "Mister Stiles said we could pet the dragon."

            "And so you can," Stiles said, satisfied that Negira was going to stay where he'd put her. He took a seat beside her neck and patted the ridge of her spine. "Have you ever pet a dragon before?"

            "No," Addison said, suddenly looking a tad nervous. She stuck out her chin in defiance. "But I'm gonna. Billy said I was too scared, but I'm not."

            "Nor should you be," Stiles said. "Negira is very sweet, and she would never hurt you. All you have to do is introduce yourself, and then pat her on the nose."

            Addison looked Stiles up and down, as if he might be lying, and then she turned her gaze to Negira. She gave a little curtsy, and said. "Hello, Dragon. My name is Addison. It's very nice to meet you."

            Then she dropped to her knees in front of Negira's snout, and began petting her in earnest. Negira, for her part, wriggled forward a little, wuffling as she pressed her nose into the child's touches. A deep, happy thrum started in her chest, and Addison giggled in delight. Stiles hadn't known how tense he was until he relaxed.

            It was not long before the rest of the children were approaching and introducing themselves to the dragon. The chaperones all looked uneasy, but the longer Negira treated the children gently, thrumming and squirming like a puppy with barely-contained excitement, the more they relaxed as well. One of the men sidled over to Stiles' side, clearly intent on talking to him.

            "James," Stiles greeted, giving him a reassuring smile. He'd spoken with all of the chaperones on the phone at some point, though he hadn't exactly cleared this interaction with any of them. He'd been expecting questions, at the very least.

            "Hey," the guy said, nervous smile flashing over his features. "This is, uh, pretty cool, man. I never knew dragons were... like this. But isn't this... um... well, it just seems like it might be… against regulations,” he ventured hesitantly, motioning to the dragon and the kids now crawling all over her. Negira had rolled carefully belly-up and was keeping her paws fisted up so that she couldn't nick any of the children with her claws.

            Stiles glanced over. “It is,” he said simply. “But this is my property, and I think they're stupid regulations. They say that these creatures, and so many others, are vicious, dangerous creatures that can’t be trusted. That their only place in our world is a blood-stained pit, killing each other off for our entertainment. ”

            The guy made a noise Stiles couldn’t place, and then said: “I’ve never thought about it like that. I guess I’ve never been close to any of them. Not like this, anyway.”

            “Most people haven’t,” Stiles said. “They’re afraid. But, does she look vicious to you? The only reason these creatures fight is because we forced them into it. They don’t need that, they need our protection.”

            “And the others- they’re like this?” the guy asked. “You know, everywhere else?”

            “Most of them,” Stiles told him with a little shrug. “If you give them a choice, almost all of them will choose to be gentle.”

            The guy nodded, clearly taking in that information, and then smiled. “Do you think she would let me pet her?”

            “Yeah, of course,” Stiles said, returning the smile. He hadn’t really been expecting any of the adults to want to actually touch her. He'd thought they would all think they knew better. He was even prepared to work with _the dragon is only being nice because it knows they are kids._ It was a pleasant surprise not to have to resort to that. “Negira!”

            Negira raised her head from beneath a veritable pile of children and looked at him crooked, one little boy still hanging off her right crest horn. When she saw his motion to come closer, she rolled her body slowly, steadying herself with one wing, and practically swam across the floor in order to put her head at their feet. Stiles rolled his eyes at the dramatics, but he motioned for James to pet her.

            Gently, the man knelt down until he was at eye level with her. She regarded him with sharp red eyes as he held out his hand, as if she were a dog that needed to get his scent before allowing him to pet her. When her dry, forked tongue flicked out to curl over his fingers instead, he started a little, but didn’t pull away. A familiar swell of pride rose in Stiles' chest as James smiled broadly, and put his hand on Negira's snout.

            She closed her eyes and pressed into the contact.

            "Wow," James breathed. "She's so much _warmer_ than I thought she'd be."

            "They're not cold-blooded like reptiles," Stiles said. "Most of them run quite hot. I hatched her egg in my bathtub when I was a little kid, and we had to keep it oven-hot for a long time. Hundred and thirty-six degrees."

            "Bet that was expensive," James said, shifting so that he could scratch along the hard, plated scales of her face.

            "It wasn't too bad. We ran a space heater to keep the room at ninety, and wrapped heat tape in the sand around her egg," Stiles said. "Put in a thermostat to turn the tape on and off to hold the temp steady."

            "And that _worked?_ " James asked incredulously.

            "I'm convinced she had a will to live," Stiles told him with a smile. "I don't have any other reason why it worked."

            "I'm glad it did," James said. "She's really wonderful."

            "They all are," Stiles said. "If given a chance, they're all wonderful. They shouldn't have to fight. They should be able to do this all day long."

            James chuckled, and gave Negira one last, friendly pat before clambering to his feet again. "Wouldn't that be something?"

            "It will be," Stiles said, smiling benignly before turning to the group. "All right, kids!" he said, much louder. "I think it's just about dinner time for Negira, and then it's dinner time for us! Everyone line up."

            The response was a mix of excitement and upset, with some of the kids scrambling to line up for food and some clinging like little sticky octopuses to Negira. She swiveled her head to look at Stiles, as if to ask for help, and Stiles made a low whistling noise. Immediately, Negira bleated a high, sharp trumpet of noise that sent the kids scattering. Without any more hindrances, she rolled to her feet and neatly folded her wings to her side.

            "Good girl," Stiles said, holding up one hand slightly off to his right side. She circled around him until she was standing beside him, facing the same direction as he was, with her shoulder against his palm. "Now," he said, addressing the group. "Next time I tell you to do something, are you going to listen as good as Negira listens?"

            "Yes, Mr. Stiles," the group chanted, a few children more sullen than others.

            "Can we come back and play with Miss Negira again before we go?" one of the little boys piped up. Eager hope sparked through the kids as they repeated the question or vocally agreed.

            "Of course you can," Stiles said, smiling kindly at them.

            Satisfied that they were not leaving Negira forever, all of the kids and the chaperones piled into the large elevator and Boyd and Erica took them upstairs while Stiles waited back with Isaac. Negira made little whining noises in the back of her throat when the door closed between her and the children.

            "That went well," Isaac said. "She really is a star."

            Stiles smiled, and when the elevator returned, they took it up together. Stiles left Negira with Isaac, who began leading her back to her pen. Stiles got out before Isaac opened the pen door, which would lock all of the outer doors, and caught up with the group halfway across the lawn. The kids began asking questions about Negira and his other animals as they walked, and Stiles patiently answered them the whole way to the dining area.

            The large table was set with one place for everyone in the manor that night, and there were covered platters set from one end to the other. Stiles could smell baked chicken and buttered noodles and fresh biscuits. The soft scent of cooked green beans and bread pudding accented it all perfectly.

            As they filtered into the room, everyone seemed to freeze in place, and Stiles looked up to the far end of the table.

            Derek was standing in the doorway that lead to the common room. He was staring at the group with wide eyes, frozen in place himself. He must have heard them coming, and thought they were heading to where all the kids had made camp. The glint of the collar around Derek's neck assured Stiles that there was no way he could be passed off as staff.

            Fear spiraled inside of Stiles, making him dizzy for a second before he reined it in. They could do this. It might have been a mistake if they hadn't _just_ come from visiting Negira. Straightening, he adjusted his clothing and cleared his throat, drawing most of the attention to himself.

            "Derek," he said, loud and clear. Derek startled a little, looking like he was ready to bolt. "Everyone, this is Derek. Derek, this is the group of children here for the lock-in. You remember I told you about them?"

            Stiles could see the panic brightening Derek's eyes when he looked at him for direction, but there was nothing Stiles could do from across the room except hope Derek caught the hint. "Uhm... hi," Derek said, visibly pulling himself together. "It's good to meet you."

            "You can talk," one of the chaperones, Eric, blurted. Stiles rolled his eyes, knowing Derek would catch the gesture.

            "You noticed that, huh?" Derek replied, glancing quickly to Stiles, who nodded for him to continue. "I can do a lot of things you humans don't expect me to be able to do."

            "But you're a shifter," James said.

            "I'm not an animal," Derek told him evenly. "Though I can change my shape into one."

            "Which one?" Addison asked. Everyone looked at her, and one of the boys shoved her shoulder in an attempt to make her be quiet. She shoved him back and added, "I just want to know, _Charles_!" before James separated them.

            "A wolf," Derek said. "I'm a werewolf, not a true shifter."

            "What's the difference?" Eric asked.

            "Magic, mostly," Derek said, giving a little, one-shouldered shrug. "Group dynamics and the degree to which they can shift. A werewolf can have up to four full forms- human, beta, alpha, and wolf. True shifters shift along a scale between human and animal, and anything in between the two full forms, they have to consciously hold. Our only scale is between human and beta forms, like if we want to just show our teeth or our claws but not fully shift. But I can't just... have a wolf head or something. A true shifter could, though."

            "Oh," Eric said. He and James both looked a little shell-shocked. Stiles guessed neither of them had been expecting such an elaborate answer from what should have been just an animal.

            "Show us!" Addison demanded.

            Derek stiffened, and looked to Stiles for direction. "I don't- that may not be-"

            "You can show them," Stiles told him. "Give 'em a good roar. They don't need sleep tonight."

            "Yeah, we wanna see!" Charles piped up, and then ducked back when the other kids looked at him.

            Taking a deep breath, Derek nodded. He held up his hands, and showed the kids his blunt, human fingertips. Once they were all paying attention, he shifted out his claws, letting them sharpen before their eyes. Addison took a step closer, and James put a hand on her shoulder to stop her. Derek glanced up at him, and then down to Addison, who looked far less afraid. Then, almost without warning, Derek let his fangs drop in, and he curled his fingers into talon shapes. He opened his jaws and snarled ferociously at the children.

            All of the kids squealed in fear or delight, and several of them clapped excitedly. "Again!" came a voice from the middle of the group, the word echoing through the other kids almost immediately.

            Stiles smiled at the surprise on Derek's face. "Guess you're just not that scary, big guy," he said, earning him a frown from the disgruntled werewolf as he changed back to fully human. "All right, everyone. Take a seat for dinner. I'm sure Derek would love to sit and eat with us."

            The kids all scrambled to get seats as close as possible to Derek, scraping chairs and clanking silverware and plates as they all clambered into place. The chaperones watched nervously, but took their seats as well, and Stiles began uncovering food to pass around. As the chaperones began doling out food to them, the kids began asking Derek a million questions at once.

            "Can you really turn into a wolf?"

            "Can we see you be a wolf?"

            "How come you look like us?"

            "Did you have lots of fights?"

            "Did you ever lose an _arm_?"

            "How come you can talk? My mom says supers can't talk."

            "My mom says wolves eat _rabbits_. Do you eat rabbits?"

            "Is that a _real_ collar?"

            Derek did his best to answer as many of the questions as he could while encouraging the kids to take a breath and maybe even a bite of food. Stiles could barely chew because he was smiling so hard, despite that he knew he was going to hear about this from Derek later.

            Secretly, he thought Derek was enjoying himself. He'd hidden in his room with Cora the entire lock-in the previous year, but things were _changing_ now. Every day Derek was a little less afraid of humans. Every day he grew a little bolder, until they found themselves here, entertaining a large group of children over dinner.

            Eventually the group ran out of steam for eating, and the kids started getting antsy. The chaperones dictated that the children should help clear the table, and they began to pile up plates and collect silverware. Derek helped clear the bigger dishes, even earning a smile from Eric as he held the kitchen door to allow him to pass. When most of it was at least relocated to the sinks in the kitchen, Stiles and Lydia began to herd all of the children back to the common room for sleep.

            There was a small hurricane of action as all the children found the sleeping bags and bedding they had set up earlier in the day. For the most part, the chaperones stood back and let the kids sort themselves out, mostly because there were politics in play that none of the grown-ups could possibly have understood.

            It was as everyone was settling in, the kids on the floor and the adults on the sleeper couches, that Cora appeared in one of the doorways, a stack of thin books in her hands. Just like Derek, she was wearing her collar, obviously marking her as yet another super allowed to wander free on his grounds. Stiles contained a sigh and reminded himself that this was what they wanted- exposure to kind, intelligent supers.

            "Cora," Stiles said. "Good evening."

            "Hey," she said, smiling more than a little smugly, and leaning up against the door frame. "A little birdie told me that you were putting the munchkins to bed."

            "A little birdie named Isaac?" Stiles inquired, though they both knew the answer to that one.

            "I'm sure I wouldn't know," Cora said, smiling back. "Anyway, I brought books. Kids like stories before bed, right?"

            Stiles stared at her for a second, and then let out a huff of laughter. Why not, he thought. They'd so far spent the evening petting a free-ranging dragon and eating dinner with a werewolf. Bedtime stories from the werewolf's sister probably wasn't going to scare anyone. When he spoke, he raised his voice to address the group. "Why don't you ask them? Does anyone here want Miss Cora to read a story?"

            "Yes!" they all chanted in response.

            Cora grinned and began picking her way to the center of the room. "All right then!" she exclaimed. She dropped the pile of books in a heap in front of her after she had taken a seat, and began spreading them out for everyone to see. "Why don't you guys pick?"

            "Are you a werewolf, too?" Addison asked as she scooted up close to Cora, eyes on the silver collar around her throat.

            "Yes," Cora said without hesitation. "I'm a big, mean werewolf that eats little kiddies like you for breakfast." She leaned over, leering at Addison with her lips peeled back from her fangs in a big smile.

            Addison giggled and smushed Cora's cheeks with both hands, ruining the illusion. "You're silly," she said. "Can you be a real wolf?"

            "Yes," Cora said again, pulling her face from Addison's hands. "But then I can't read you any stories."

            "I could be a real wolf," Derek offered. He had been hanging out at the edge of the room, seemingly not sure of what to do with himself, but Cora's arrival had given him an idea.

            Immediately the kids began clamoring, pleases and yeses rolling around their group until the adults managed to shush them. Derek bowed out of the room to remove his clothing and shift. When he nosed his way through the swinging door from the dining room, it was as a sleek, black wolf. The kids gasped and squealed and Stiles was certain it was sheer force of will on the part of the chaperones that kept the kids on their sleeping bags rather than scrambling across the room.

            "Mister Stiles! Mister Stiles!" one of the girls asked, raising her hand and flailing it frantically. "Can we pet Mister Derek? Pleeeease?"

            "Ah, that's not up to me," Stiles told her gently, loud enough for everyone to hear him well. "Derek may look like an animal at the moment, but he is still a person, just like you or me. We don't touch other people without their permission, do we?"

            "No," the kids chanted together. The little girl raised her hand again, and Stiles motioned for her to continue. "Mister, how do we know if he says it's okay?"

            "Why don't you ask and see what he does?" Stiles suggested.

            Though she looked a little nervous, the girl turned and looked hard at Derek, her brow furrowed in concentration. Finally, she took a big, deep breath and said: "Mister Derek, may I pet you?"

            Stiles and Cora both hid smiles behind their hands when Derek barked, loud and sharp, startling everyone in the room. When the little girl seemed uncertain about what that might have meant, Derek flopped onto the ground splayed out on his side, a more than obvious invitation to be pet. The kids looked over to the chaperones, waiting for permission to leave their designated sleeping bags, until all the adults had nodded.

            The kids all scrambled up and suddenly Derek was surrounded by children patting his fur and telling him he was a good boy. Stiles' heart caught in his chest for a second, wondering what Derek would think of the situation. There hadn't been many times in his life that humans had ever told him that he was good, fewer still where they had meant it so simply as these children.

            It turned out, Stiles needn't have worried. Derek flopped and nuzzled and wriggled his way into the center of the pack until there was just a pile of children all around him. Then he scrabbled around just enough to be able to look expectantly at Cora. With a roll of her eyes, Cora selected a book from her spread, crawled over so that she could put her back up against Derek's, and cracked it open.

            "All right kiddies," she said. "Story time!"

            As she began to read to them, the lady chaperone rose from her place and wandered over to where Stiles was sitting on a loveseat. She silently asked for permission to sit with him, and Stiles scooted over enough to leave her plenty of space. She folded herself gracefully into the seat and watched the kids and the wolves for a silent moment. Stiles was just beginning to let his attention return fully to the kids when she finally spoke.

            "I didn't get a chance to introduce myself earlier," she said. "I'm Marin. Marin Morrell."

            "Pleasure," Stiles said, a little taken aback. That wasn't the name he'd heard on the phone. "How'd you get stuck on babysitting duty?"

            "Braeden was busy, so I volunteered to take her place," Marin said, smiling faintly. "I must admit that I am... surprised, to say the least. They really are good with the kids. Especially Addison."

            "Yeah," Stiles agreed.

            "I was speaking with your friend there, Ms. Martin," Marin ventured. "She told me she monitors expenses for the Argent wardens."

            "That's part of it," Stiles said. "She schedules their fights, takes care of all intake and output of their fighters, does all of the ordering and intake for supplies, and oversees their handlers."

            "That's a lot of work for one person," Marin said.

            "She's an amazing person," Stiles told her. "If I could afford to, I'd have her here."

            Marin tipped her head a little, and motioned to all around them- the herd of children he was hosting, the huge common room, the remains of the elaborate dinner being cleaned now by Harvelle. "All of this can't afford Lydia Martin?"

            Stiles smiled innocently. "Not all costs are in dollars, Miss Morrell," he said.

            "Ah," she said, understanding dawning in her eyes. "Connections. Am I to understand that Ms. Martin was responsible for moving Derek to your grounds?"

            Red flags shot up in Stiles' mind, and he straightened a little. As far as he knew, the kids all came from families that either didn't have much or didn't have anything to do with the arenas. The chaperones should have been parents of the children, and unconnected to the arena as well. To know about Derek's origin would take far, far more than surface-level knowledge. Someone was snooping, and she had the upper-hand; she knew more about him than he knew of her, and there was no one to save him if he took a wrong step here.

            "As the manager of their estate, yes," Stiles said cautiously. "She was involved in the process."

            Marin laughed, a high, pretty sound that might have relaxed Stiles if he wasn't sure she was laughing at him. "I think she was a little more than _involved in the process_ ," she said, still smiling a little. "Chris and Kate wouldn't have parted with _that one_ of their own accord."

            "I don't... I'm afraid I don't understand," Stiles said.

            When she looked at him, Stiles could tell she expected him to know more than he did. "Oh," she said, realizing that he didn't. "Well that- You know Victoria Argent was killed by a super that escaped?"

            "Yeah," Stiles said. "But that wasn't Derek. It would have been on his record, if he'd killed a human. They would have had him destroyed."

            "Yes, if he had killed anyone," Marin agreed. "But not if he was the one to let them out."

            Stiles' breath caught in his throat as he turned to look at Derek. He was currently at the bottom of a pile of children, eyes closed and ears cocked to the sound of Cora's voice as she read. There was no way.

            "The Argents had the incident report scratched, but it crossed my superior's desk before that," she said slowly, drawing his attention back to her. "Officially, they had submitted that Derek was found trying to claw his way into the pen of a nearby female werewolf, one that was _in heat_."

            Stiles frowned. That didn't seem like Derek, and Stiles thought for sure Derek would have mentioned if any of this had actually happened. Something was niggling at the back of his mind, and he turned to Marin. "Why are you telling me this?"

            "Because my superior sent me to investigate, before the case was erased," she said. "Miss Martin's mother, her predecessor at the estate, was the one who let me into the kennel. It was... odd. There was no damage done to the pens, and certainly none that would be congruent with a mature male werewolf attempting to enter the closed pen of a female wolf in heat."

            "What are you saying?" Stiles asked carefully. He didn't want to jump to conclusions but it sounded an awful lot like she was saying-

            "I don't think Derek was trying to get into another pen," she stated, giving a little shrug. "If he was ever out of his pen at all, I think he was trying to escape, and take the others with him. But that sort of incident report implies a lot more intelligence than supers are supposed to have."

            "I see," Stiles said.

            "Do you know where I work, Stiles?" Marin asked coolly.

            "I have no idea," he responded stiffly.

            "I work in a section of the Arena Breeder Association." She let that sink in for a moment, and when he didn't respond, she shifted so that she could look at him more closely. "I used to deal with accidental breedings, but I've since moved... well, let's say a little higher. I've been watching you. First taking in Cora from a breeding facility, then Derek- granted that was a long time after his incident. Then you rescue yet another wolf, whose warden was found to be guilty of using brood hormones on her. Not long ago, I found one of the people on your payroll snooping into our business over the breeding of endangered species among other things. One of those, even two of them, might have been coincidence, Mr. Stilinski."

            _Three's a pattern._ Stiles swallowed thickly, heart thumping in his ears as he remembered his father's motto. Across the room, Derek lifted his head and looked over, fur bristling. Cora stopped reading to look at Derek, and then followed his gaze to Stiles. The kids who were still awake turned to see as well, eyes wide and curious.

            Despite the heavy accusations Marin had just implied, she smiled and waved encouragingly at the kids. "Don't stop on account of us!"

            "It's okay," Stiles said quietly, more for the benefit the two wolves than to the kids. "We were enjoying the story."

            Cora searched Stiles for any sign of distress for a few heartbeats before turning back to her book and gathering the attention of the kids. She began to read again and Derek put his head back down. His velvety black ears stayed cocked in Stiles' direction, and he knew that whatever they spoke about now, Derek would overhear.

            "I'm not here to hurt you," Marin assured him quietly. "I'm not here to discredit you or to get you in trouble." She pulled her small purse around from her hip to her lap and cracked it open, fishing a stiff business card from within. She set it on the couch cushion between them. "In fact, quite the opposite."

            Stiles looked from the card to her face and back again, uncertain of how to take this. "You... you want to help?"

            "Not in so many words," Marin said. "I'm not sure how much direct help I will be able to give, but I'm tired of seeing the things I see for my job. I took an interest in what you are doing, and I wanted to see for myself what you were about, to see if taking a risk would be worth it."

            "And?" Stiles asked, though he already knew the answer because she was sitting there talking to him.

            "I believe it is," she said.

            Hesitantly, Stiles reached down and finally plucked the business card from the cushion. On the back was scrawled a personal phone number in blue ink; she had indeed been prepared to be on his side before talking to him. He looked up, and she smiled benignly at him, so he nodded. "Okay," he said. "I'll keep you in mind, if we need your help."

            "That's all I ask," she said. "And Stiles? If I noticed, someone else noticed, too, and they won't be the sort of people that want to help. I'll do what I can to help cover your tracks, but... do be careful."

            "I'll do my best," Stiles assured her as she clambered to her feet and extended a hand for him to shake. Then she was gone, back across the room, and Stiles looked up to see Derek staring at him again.

            He wasn't sure what he was going to do with this new information, but it couldn't be a bad thing that there were others who wanted to help. They would just have to take Morrell's advice to heart, and be very, very careful.

 

* * *

_Wardens may not play a game piece in Division 1_

_more than once in sixty (60) days_

* * *

 

            Derek ducked under the claws aimed at his face, springing up as soon as they had passed in order to run the soft pads of his fingers firmly down the scales of Negira's shoulder. She snapped her wing in to hit him with the clawed joint and instead of jumping back, he dove forward to rake his claws toward where her wing met her body.

            Without missing a beat, she pulled the opposite wing in and rolled onto her side, away from his touch before he hit membrane. The movement left him within a coiled loop of dragon, with all of her claws facing in to where he was, and he froze. Even though she lay on her side with her softer belly facing him, he knew those sharp talons would kill him before he could so much as scratch her.

            She tapped his cheek playfully with the bend of her wing, and then wriggled to her feet.

            "You're dead again," Stiles said, shaking his head. "You can't stay in for that secondary attack."

            "She protects her wings, I don't know how to ground her," Derek said wearily. They had been at this for hours now, for days, and he was no closer to beating any of Negira's admittedly skillful moves.

            "Thankfully you won't be fighting a Ridgeback this time, but you should know that the larger species can't get much height in a normal arena," Stiles said. "They're not like harpies or sphinxes or angels. They're too big for arena aerial combat unless it's a big enough arena. Think more about how you can bleed a dragon out."

            "Won't that take a long time?" Derek queried. They had a lot of blood.

            "Negira, come," Stiles said, holding up one hand. Negira circled Derek, whapping him with the tip of her tail before she settled her nose against Stiles' palm. He reached up and pointed with two fingers down the length of her sinuous neck. "You see this? It takes a lot of pressure and power to pump blood up through all this, and through her wings. That's why dragons have three or more hearts. That's also why you, a little werewolf, will be able to kill one."

            "Depressurizing their circulatory system," Derek murmured, thoughts whirling around in his head. Erica had been teaching him about anatomy, the names of bones and muscles and organs, how the respiratory and circulatory systems worked. Being a handler, she had told him, was just temporary. She wanted to be a supernatural vet.

           As though his thoughts had summoned her, Erica pushed open the door to the stairwell at the rear of the training area, waving a package in one hand. Negira whistled a greeting to her as she crossed the huge area, and Erica whistled back. "Hey, Boss," she said to Stiles as soon as she was close enough. "Post lady dropped this off at the door personally. Said it was marked urgent."

            Stiles patted Negira's snout and turned her around to face Derek again. She watched as Stiles walked away, and then dropped her attention to Derek. _Your instinct says to fight across,_ she told him. _Every attack you make is to cut tendons or break bones. This is wrong. When you fight now, it must be up and down. Come here._

            Derek moved in, glancing to see if Stiles or Erica would care if he continued sparring without direction, but they were deeply involved in a discussion of their own. Negira sat back on her haunches and folded open her wings to create a quiet space the included only them. When she tipped her head to the side, an obvious invitation, he placed his hand on the smooth scales of her neck.

            Beneath his fingers, there was no real pulse, only a steady, comforting thrum. Her multiple hearts kept the blood flowing smoothly.

            _If you cut across, it will close._ She let her haunches and wings bear her weight, and brought her paws up to guide his hand down her neck, along the path of the veins. _You must cut up or down._

            With a shove, she sent him sprawling on the practice floor. He stayed where he'd been put, and she made a partial leap forward so that she was straddling him with her body, her belly directly above him. She curled her head, looking at him upside down through her front paws.

            _Find the end of my ribs_ , she instructed.

            Tentatively, he reached up and let his fingers tick over each rib until he found soft stomach. As soon as he had found it, she lifted one of her legs, exposing the soft, scaleless joint for him to see. It would have been nearly impossible to penetrate the thick, tough scales of her belly, but if he could get a grip at the joint, he could rip all the way through. To make sure, he stretched over to touch the vulnerable skin and felt a flutter of approval smooth over his mind.

            _Fight me again, kin of wolves._ She stepped off of him, sweeping her wings and tail out of the way so that he could clamber to his feet. He glanced toward Stiles again and decided it wasn't time to fight. Something was happening.

            "Who delivered it?" Stiles was demanding, almost sounding angry.

            Negira followed Derek's gaze to her master, and then nodded for him to go. Practice could wait- they still had a few weeks before he had to go into the pit with a dragon. Whatever was going on seemed _important_. Derek sidled over, giving both humans plenty of time to ward him away if they didn't want company, but neither of them stopped him.

            "What happened?" he asked as soon as he was close enough he wouldn't have to raise his voice. He had a feeling raised voices weren't going to help here.

            "A woman came to the front door, dressed as a postal worker, and signed this package over to me," Erica told him before Stiles could start. "She said it was marked urgent, and that the head of the house needed to see it immediately. So, I brought it out here."

            Derek looked at the parcel in Stiles' hands, stamped with a dull-red _urgent_ on both sides. The open end was facing him, and it looked like Stiles had hastily shoved a large stack of papers back into the package. "What is it?"

            "Records," Stiles said, looking a little ill. "It's printed records from maybe half a dozen breeding facilities. Obviously not all of them, and I haven't looked closely at them yet but... it looks like it might relate to Boyd's theory about systematic, purposeful destruction of supernatural species."

            Derek's brow furrowed. That seemed like a good thing, to him. "So why are you upset?" he asked. "That's information you need, isn't it?"

            "Yes," Stiles agreed. "But the fact that someone brought this to us means that someone knows what we are looking for."

            "Yeah, but... someone that wants to help, right?" Derek asked.

            Stiles flipped the package over and pointed to a corner where little, colorful squares of paper were attached. "When someone sends something through the mail, the post office stamps this area with a date and some other information, to say that yes, they did receive and deliver the package and its travel was paid for appropriately."

            "Okay..." Derek said slowly, not sure what exactly he was supposed to be seeing.

            "There's no postmark," Stiles explained, sounding more exasperated than Derek thought was necessary. He didn't know much about the mailing system the humans had, after all. "This didn't come through the mail and whoever delivered it didn't work for the post office. Which means whoever got this information also knows where I live, and they don't want to be found or linked to this in any way."

            "And without knowing where it came from," Erica added, coming to Derek's rescue, "we can't know if it's legitimate information or not. If it is, we may have a friend in high places. If it's not... well, this could just as easily be a threat."

            "The lady at the lock-in said she worked with breeding facilities," Derek reminded them. "Maybe she can't help you directly."

            Stiles made a thoughtful noise and then offered the package to Erica, who took it off his hands. "Please take that to Boyd, and have him start looking into what's there. If it's solid information, loop me in and we'll start figuring out how to use it. I'll see if I can get hold of Marin."

            Erica nodded to Stiles and then to Derek, and headed out the way she'd come. Stiles watched her go for a moment, and then turned back to Derek. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "You ready to keep going?"

 

* * *

_Permissible Killigan Darter game pieces_

_will be red, yellow, or green_

_with soft-grey dappling over their entire hide_

_Aggressive, Class 4_

* * *

 

            Sitting with his back against the hallway bars, Derek felt certain his blood had been replaced by adrenaline. His vision was swimming a little and he thought maybe he was just watching himself instead of really being there. He was up next, about to go into the ring with an adult Darter dragon for real. This time there would be no quarter given; the creature would be trying to kill him, and it would not slow down the way Negira did when teaching him the right moves.

            This time, if he made the wrong move, he was dead.

            It hadn't been quite as bad earlier, when there were others in the pens to either side of him. They were both Division 2 fighters, a small fawn and a burly-looking cat shifter. The latter had never returned to the pen, and the fawn had been picked up by her handlers a few minutes ago.

            Both of them had given him the same message; there was hope in the pits.

            They knew about his plan to get out, and they had heard the message about fighting if Derek fell in combat. They were ready, they told him. They spoke well of his sisters, assuring him that their matches were safe, that all of the fighters at any of their matches threw their own fights as well, to ensure that the girls were safe. They spoke about getting out, of following in his footsteps if they could, and about saving others if they couldn't get out themselves.

            "I'm not sure I can finish it," Derek had admitted while he had been waiting for his turn on the sands. "The humans that run the arenas... they want me dead."

            "Of course they do," said the shifter. "We're supposed to fight each other, not them. If they didn't want you dead, you'd know you were doing it wrong. But you can't let them win. You can't die, wolf."

            "The others believe in you," the fawn bleated. "We all do. Derek Hale fights for our freedom- that's what they say now."

            "I can't do all the fighting," Derek had said. "If it comes down to it, we will all have to stand together. We have no chance of winning against them if we cannot unite. My little sister, she likes to talk about a new world, where everything is different, where everyone is free. Would you fight for that?"

            "Ashborn," said the fawn earnestly. "We're fighting for much less now."

            The others were gone now, one of them forever, and Derek was still waiting for his match. A tone outside his pen drew his attention, and he looked up to the gate. It was grating open, revealing the large, open arena beyond. There was a flash of yellow across the pit, and a piercing shriek cut the air. Derek was very glad Stiles had given him something to dull the sound in his free ear.

            He took a breath, and then loosened his hold on his alpha form. This would be difficult enough with all of his power, there was no way he could win in only a beta shift. He kept low to the sand as he exited the holding pen, scanning the arena until he found the bright spark of color that was the Darter dragon.

            Although he had seen pictures of them, seeing one in person was an entirely different experience. The bright yellow of its hide was dappled with a soft grey sheen that glittered in the light of the pit. It had hooked its claws around the steel nubs that peppered the support post it hung from, and was watching him with bright green eyes.

            This one was a male, Stiles had told him, larger than females but generally less aggressive. It was around twelve feet long, Derek remembered from their talks, but it looked smaller. He supposed the whippy tail made up a lot of that length. It wasn't bigger than his full-wolf form, but it was lithe and quick, with a thin head that reminded him more of a snake than a dragon. It's strength was speed, not muscle.

            It dropped its wings open, ready to attack Derek from above, and Derek pressed himself closer to the ground as the crowd began to cheer louder.

            "You're going to be fine," Stiles said in his ear.

            Easy for him to say, Derek thought as the dragon detached itself from the pillar and came screaming toward him. Instead of backing down, Derek sprang up to full height, hands and claws extended with a sudden, loud snarl. The dragon startled and zipped upward away from him without laying a claw on him, just as Stiles had said it would. They were aggressive, but not brave.

            Derek dropped to all fours again and gave chase, intent on not letting the creature get enough distance to try anything tricky. It kept above him, flying around the arena as high as the fenced ceiling would allow, just slow enough for Derek to keep pace. For a while it only made feints at him, none of them serious. It was testing him, checking for reaction times, watching for patterns in his movements.

            It was stalling, clearly not intending to fight until-

            A dull tone rang, signaling five minutes had passed.

            Without any more warning, it reached out with one paw and one wing, latching onto a pillar and using it to do a hard 180 to come right back for him. This time Derek didn't rise up, but ran at an angle, keeping his side toward the creature.

            It took the invitation, swooping close enough to lash out at his exposed hide. Derek was ready for it, just as Negira had taught him, and he hooked all the claws of both hands into one of the dragon's wrists. Thankfully Stiles had chosen the smallest of the eligible dragon species. It wasn't strong enough to lift him off the ground, which meant he was strong enough to bring it down to fight. With all of his strength, he yanked the creature into the sands with him, twisting so that it ended up on its side instead of its belly.

            Immediately it began to flail, kicking up sand in great flurries all around them, its shrill screams deafening even through the plug in Derek's ear. It's free wing cracked wildly out at him and he felt the sharp sickle of its tail glance off his arm as it tried to right itself. He struggled to keep it flipped, blocking its claws and looking for a way to strike.

            Finally, he ducked in, claws out, and when it made to lash out at him, he grabbed hold of its wrist with one hand and, using all of his strength, stretched its limb out to reveal the soft joint. Without hesitation, he jabbed all the claws of his free hand into the flesh and ripped upward. Long, jagged rents fell open all the way from arm to jaw.

            Fresh, hot blood sprayed across Derek as the dragon began to thrash, its scream deadened to a gurgle. Derek sprang free of it, wiping blood from his eyes with the back of his wrist. He stared as the blood began to fleck and stain the sand a deep blue. It was sticking to his skin, making his collar itch, the scent clinging in the air around him, metallic and sharp.

            The dragon's head dropped back into the sand as it lost strength, muscles twitching as the life bled out of it. Slowly, its jaws worked open and closed and its brilliant, green eyes held his.

            _I forgive you, Wolf._

            Breath gurgled wetly through the rents he'd torn in its throat, its eyes still trained on him as it fell almost completely still, one clawed paw spasming weakly against the bloodstained sand.

            _Do not give up_.

            White fog began to cloud into the black of its pupils as it fell still, the light of life fading even as Derek watched. He swallowed, barely hearing the tone or the announcement that assigned the win to Warden Stilinski. There was a buzz in his ear, the almost frantic sound of Stiles asking if he was alright, but all he could do was stare at the creature before him.

            The crackle of a zap-stick in front of him finally drew his attention. One of the dragon's handlers was advancing toward him, ready to move him away from the body with force if necessary. Derek bared his teeth and growled at the man, but he took a few steps backward. His gaze dropped back to the lifeless body, and he shook his head.

            "Derek, please answer me," Stiles said, voice tense.

            "I'm fine," Derek rasped. "Just... I'll tell you about it later."

            "Okay," Stiles said, relief evident in his tone. Derek wondered if Stiles had thought he was going feral again. "I'll see you soon."

            "Yeah," Derek said as he watched the opposing handlers begin to haul the dragon's body back toward the holding pen.

            Isaac touched his shoulder, and Derek turned to look at him numbly. The human nodded toward the holding pen, and after a moment of hesitation, Derek followed.

            It shouldn't have ended like that.

            It should never end like that, pointless and bloody.

 

* * *

_The victorious warden shall receive from the house_

_their entrance fee plus 15% of the house Division earnings_

_for the Division 1 match date_

* * *

 

            Derek lay in the middle of his nest, spread-eagle, staring blankly up at the ceiling. There was a bandage wrapped around his arm, where the Darter dragon's sickle-tipped tail had left a thin laceration. He hadn't even noticed it at the time. It was clean-edged, a perfect candidate to heal in a matter of hours. Derek hadn't let it. He couldn't get the dragon out of his mind, couldn't let go of its last words.

            _I forgive you_

            The phrase had burrowed into his chest, squeezing his heart, strangling him from the inside. Another life-light, snuffed out by his claws. Lost on the path to Derek's false freedom, destroyed in his quest to save the very people he was killing.

            The wound on his arm burned.

            _Don't give up_

            Just like Kitara, the Darter dragon had done its best not to injure Derek, even knowing it would mean death. It had traded its life to him for the sake of the others. The wound on Derek's arm was superficial, but it felt unfair to let it heal. He had done nothing to earn that sort of sacrifice.

            _I forgive you_

            All he had done so far was kill more of his people.

            _I forgive you_

            There was a soft knock on his door, to which Derek made no move to respond. He knew it was Stiles, checking on him again. He could smell the tray of food Stiles carried, and he knew that Stiles was just worried, but he wasn't sure he was capable of dealing with human interaction.

            The door cracked anyway when he didn't respond, and Stiles called his name.

            Derek stared blankly at the ceiling.

            "Derek, you have to eat sometime," Stiles said softly, still outside the room.

            _Don't give up_

            He couldn't get rid of the dragon's dying words.

            "Okay," he said, voice cracking. He hadn't spoken much since the fight.

            A long moment of hesitation passed, and then the door swung open enough that Derek could see Stiles on his periphery. He didn't move as Stiles walked over and bent to set the tray beside the nest of blankets. Stiles took a seat, though it was on the floor with enough space between them that Derek didn't feel crowded or uncomfortable.

            Together they sat in silence, Stiles fiddling with the cuff of his pant leg. Derek stared blankly at his own hands, the dragon's words rattling around in his skull like they were the only things left.

            "I don't know if I can do this anymore," he croaked quietly.

            "Do what?" Stiles asked, gentle and soothing.

             "Keep killing people," Derek said. "I know I said I could, I know I said- I thought I could, but I- how much longer? How much more damage will I have to do before this is over?"

            He could feel Stiles' eyes on him, but he didn't look over. It was a while before Stiles finally answered him. "I'll submit your withdrawal papers in the morning," he murmured. "We'll figure it out from there."

            "I can't-" Derek said, finally dragging his eyes away from the ceiling and rolling so that he was facing Stiles. "I can't... stop. They gave their lives so I wouldn't be stopped."

            "Derek..." Stiles began, turning the name into an argument.

            "They can't die in vain, but I can't keep... what if it had been Negira, Stiles?" Derek asked pleadingly. "That Darter dragon belonged to someone. _Someone_ out there hatched it. _Someone_ raised it, trained it, loved it. A week ago, someone out there lost their friend, and someday, it could be Negira. I can't- how can I live with that? How can I be responsible for that?"

            Stiles reached over and held out his hand, palm up, and Derek laid his own atop it. "In human culture, we have stories about humans that save other people. They fight against bad guys, little bad guys and big corporations and everything in between. We call them superheroes, because they usually have a trait like a super, and they save people. And... a lot of times, they have to do it alone because they don't quite belong to humanity anymore, but they aren't supers either. A lot of times, they have to carry burdens that normal people can't, because they are the only ones who can."

            Derek's throat closed, and he slipped his hand from Stiles'. He covered both eyes with his hands, choking on the lump in his throat as he tried to contain all of the emotion coursing so thickly through his blood. He couldn't do it. He couldn't keep killing people, but he couldn't let them all keep killing each other, either.

            "It has to stop," he managed, hating the way his voice broke.

            "I'll stop it," Stiles said. "I can move you back down to Division 3, and-"

            "That's not what I mean," Derek interrupted, shaking his head. He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, trying to stop the burning behind his eyelids. "I mean all of it, Stiles. It can't just be a handful of us killing the others to get out. It can't. The whole- _everything_ has to stop."

            "Then you can't give up," Stiles said. It sounded so _plain_ when he said it like that. "Derek, I can take you out of it, if you want. I can move you back down to Division 3, and I can tell the ARC I had a change of heart. You won't have to kill anyone else. But if I do that, I'm hobbled. They'll be watching me so closely that I won't be able to move against the ARC, and neither will anyone else who knows me."

            "And the work we've done so far?" Derek said dully, dropping his hands. He knew the answer. They both knew.

            "You tell me," Stiles said. "What happens to the people in the pit?"

            "They die," Derek replied. "And they keep dying until there's nothing left."

            Silence pressed in all around them at the statement, until Stiles seemed to resolve himself, crawling over Derek to lay down next to him. Derek didn't protest as Stiles curled up around him, wrapping an arm around his middle and tucking himself up against Derek's back. After a moment, Derek could hear their synchronized heartbeats.

            "We'll figure this out, Derek. I promise," Stiles said after a while. "I've started talking to others, trying to feel out who can be brought in to help without giving us away. You know the ARC wants us dead, and if they figure out what I'm doing, they may catch me before I've gotten enough support. They aren't going to play fair. It won't be safe for any of us."

            "We're not safe now," Derek scoffed, closing his eyes. "We've never been safe. You said so yourself."

            Stiles didn't respond. Maybe there was no response to that, Derek thought. Maybe they were doing all they could already, and maybe taking lives along the way was all he could do to help. Maybe there was no choice but to follow the path he had chosen, and bear the burdens that came with it until they were ready to change course.

            _Don't give up_

            Maybe the only way to save the rest of his people was to let himself be destroyed.

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to [Broodingsoul](http://broodingsoul.tumblr.com) and [Epimeral](http://epimeral.tumblr.com) for going through beta reads of this chapter! Thank you to [Elin](http://firecracker452.tumblr.com) for doing story checks!
> 
> Some of the quotes between scenes are from _Nodstrom's Guide to Supernatural Species_.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has stayed with the story so far. I'm working on the ending right now, and every time someone returns or finds the story new and has something nice to say, it drives me forward. I know it's been a long journey, and sometimes there's been months between chapters... and you're still here, and that is awesome.

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

_A non-humanoid game piece shall be defined_

_as any class of supernatural creature which shares_

_less than 75% of its base form with humans_

* * *

 

            All of the library tables around Stiles were covered in papers, short stacks and single sheets, clean printed and handwritten. Some of them were covered in black marks, some of them were coated in fresh highlighter in a variety of colors. He and Boyd had spent days filtering everything they had found. There were folding tables set up around the edges of the room, brought in from the basement. These held the binders of stuff they had yet to sort, but even without those the picture was pretty clear.

            The ARC was not remotely on their side.

            Stiles let his forehead hit the edge of the desk as he put his head down. Even the coffee, now stale and lukewarm in a mug near his hand, was no longer helping him think. Since Harvelle had long gone home, Boyd had left to make a fresh pot, though the length of time he'd been gone suggested he had fallen asleep in the kitchen. Stiles was almost to that point, himself.

            The soft sound of the door opening, and the padded footsteps that followed, drew Stiles' attention. He looked hopefully to the entrance, but it wasn't Boyd carrying coffee.  It was Laura, dressed in dark-blue plaid pajama pants and one of Cora's shirts. Laura had refused to take anything new from Stiles so far. She'd actually refused most dealings with Stiles, which only made it more surprising that she was standing in the library now, obviously looking for him.

            "Good evening," Stiles greeted carefully, holding still so that he wouldn't startle her. She eyed him up and down, and came to a stop across the table from him.

            "Good evening," she echoed without inflection, resting her hands gingerly on the back of one of the chairs.

            "Can't sleep?" Stiles ventured, not sure what to say that she would actually deign to talk about with him.

            "I don't sleep much," she said, not quite looking at him. "It's very... quiet here. It feels dead sometimes."

            "Yeah," Stiles agreed.

            He'd bought the place originally intending to spread out, build a second or even third stable, become a venture similar to that of the Argent estate, with people enough to fill all the rooms of the house. However, the more supers he had brought in, the more he realized he couldn't do it. He couldn't make people, intelligent, feeling, thinking _people_ fight each other over and over forever. The manor had remained mostly empty, and the supers he'd brought in since were rescues.

            "Do you- I don't really think coffee would be a good idea," Stiles said. "But I think Boyd's in the kitchen. We could wake him up if you want me to call down for something soothing. Maybe some tea, or milk."

            "No, thank you," Laura said. She slowly pulled out the chair and slid into it. For a second she picked nervously at her fingernail, and then looked up at him. "I just wanted to talk to you."

            "Sure," Stiles said, hoping it sounded encouraging enough to put her at ease. "What can I do for you?"

            "Protect Derek," she said, before he'd even finished speaking. He blinked, and his confusion must have been obvious because she added: "In the pit."

            Stiles' brow furrowed. "Once he's out the gate, there's nothing I can do," he reminded her. "You know I'm doing everything in my power to keep him safe. He's not just a fighter to me."

            She made a face. "I know that he's made _choices_ regarding you," she told him, spitting the word _choices_ like it had a foul taste. "And I can't say I'm happy about it, but it's not my decision or my place to interfere. However, I want to know that you understand the position you're putting him in."

            "Which position is that?" Stiles asked. He might have been offended that she didn't approve, but he was too proud that she felt comfortable enough to confront him at all, one-on-one.

            "The arena humans weren't interested in playing fair before," she said quietly. "They tried to kill our mother in the pit, but there's a reason they had to burn our home down around us. It's because the others were standing by her side, letting her through. The humans had to rip out the root of the problem to stop a revolution. They wanted to be sure none of the others had anything to hold onto."

            Stiles swallowed whatever he had been about to say, realizing that she was right. Derek had told him that the supers he was coming up against now were not fighting him for real. They were surrendering their lives in order to get him through the contract. With what Laura was saying, it occurred to Stiles that it might have been the same for Talia, once upon a time. The ARC would have been powerless to kill her in the pit, if the creatures were giving themselves up for the cause.

            "You think they'll try to kill him outside of the pit," Stiles concluded.

            "I know they will, if he starts sliding through Division 1 unscathed," she told him seriously. "And there's no telling who will get caught in the crossfire."

            "I'm glad you came to me with this," Stiles began, "but we were already operating under the assumption that they would try something. We're doing what we can to make sure-"

            "You're not," she interrupted. "You're putting in cameras and staying up too late. If you want to protect him, he has to get hurt. The other humans have to believe he is fighting for his life in the pit, or they will come after you both out of it."

            "You're asking me to rig a fight so that Derek is injured?" Stiles asked, feeling breathless. What she was talking about was bringing Derek close enough to death that the ARC could believe they had a chance at killing him off in the pit. "He'd have to be nearly dead for it to work."

            She studied him, eyes tracing over him before dropping down to the papers between them. "I like it here," she admitted. "I like seeing Cora and Derek happy. I like the food that we're given, and the freedoms we have here. I understand why Derek is doing what he is doing. I understand why he took your offer. But fifteen years ago, I watched my mom go through the same thing I'm watching my little brother go through now, and I'm afraid it will end the same way unless something changes."

            "Okay," Stiles said. She was concerned, and of the two of them, she was the only one who'd been there when everything happened with Talia. She was the one in the pit with Derek. "I'll see what I can do, if you think it will help. Derek deserves to survive this. He deserves a chance to heal and be happy. Believe me when I say, I would do anything to give him that chance."

            She stared at him, eyes narrowed, brow knit. "You really mean that," she said finally, sounding mystified. "You love him."

            Stiles felt his heart skip a beat at the words. "Yes," he said without hesitation.

            "Do you love him enough?" Laura asked, tipping her head a little.

            "Enough?" Stiles echoed, confused.

            "To let him go," Laura said. "If this ends, if he survives it all, if he can be free... will you let him go?"

            Another missed heartbeat, though this time it was because his chest felt like it was being squeezed so tight he couldn't breathe. Of course he knew that Derek would have to leave, in some capacity. To the sanctuary, or to the wilds, or to someplace yet to be determined that the supers would be able to carve out for themselves... anywhere he went would be away from Stiles. On some level, he knew all of that but when it came time, he wondered if he would really be able to do it. To watch Derek walk away, possibly forever.

            "I don't know," he answered honestly.

            Again, she studied him for several moments, and then she took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "Okay," she said. Then she reached out, and picked up one of the short stacks of papers. "So, what's all this about?"

            "Okay?" Stiles asked, taken aback by her dismissal of what she had seemed to be taking very seriously. "That's it?"

            "What do you want me to say, Stiles?" she said. "I'm not going to stand between you and my brother. I'm not going to shake my finger at you and tell you what you can't do, like you're a puppy that needs discipline. You're not. You're much more dangerous than that, or you could be. But you answered me honestly. That counts for something."

            "Oh," Stiles said, suddenly feeling like he had passed some kind of test. Maybe not with flying colors, not with Laura's tone of voice, but passed none-the-less. He shook himself, and leaned to get a look at the stack she had lifted. "Those are... facility records."

            "Facility records?" she queried, letting the earlier subject drop. "What facility?"

           "Uh... looks like the Preston facility in Arizona," Stiles said, scanning the titles. Laura hadn't learned to read much yet. "Those are breeding facility records sent to us by... well, I think a friend."

            "You think?" Laura said.

            "Yeah, well..." Stiles hedged, wincing. He couldn't be one hundred percent sure that it was Marin helping them, or what her intentions were by helping them. She stood to lose a lot if they succeeded. "I met someone a while back who does work with the ARC breeding facilities. At the time, we were just starting to snoop around about a theory Boyd and I had, about the ARC... basically exterminating supers."

            "You know they are," Laura said. "That's the point of the arenas."

            Stiles winced again and shook his head. "Supers die in the arena, sure, but there's Division 3 and below, where no one dies. And there are certain people in society who keep pressure on the ARC to protect endangered species of supers. Except...."

            "Except they aren't," Laura finished for him.

            Stiles motioned vaguely in the direction of the piles of records they had been sent over the last month. "You see those?" he said. "Two sets of records- the first show facilities reporting that endangered species they've taken in are refusing to breed or are infertile. Another set reporting supers as _too dangerous_ to breed."

            He motioned to another set of piles. "Over there, hunting records. Trap-to-recover outings turned to self-defense kills. Supers not surviving capture. Supers dying in transport. 'Escaping' during quarantine."

            "Where does it all lead?" she asked.

            "Extinction," Stiles said. "Boyd's been looking into species records, as far back as we can find them, which right now is about 300 years. There were well over 600 registered species of supers, over half of which were eligible for the arena. Even with the discovery and documentation of new species between then and now, less than a third of that number exist on record today. Over 200 species have been wiped out in some way in the past 100 years."

            Laura stared at the papers, and Stiles wondered how much of it she understood, whether she would be able to interpret what the words all over the papers between them meant. He wondered what it felt like, from the other side of this, to be told that the creatures you had lived under for so long were systematically destroying people like you. He thought maybe she'd already known, and this was just confirmation.

            Something passed over her features- pain or regret or anger, Stiles wasn't sure. She gave a little shake of her head. "You're saying they're going to kill all of us. Not right away, but they will."

            "Yeah," Stiles said slowly. "We think that's the end plan."

            "That's why, then," Laura said. She glanced up, caught Stiles' gaze. "I thought it was a choice, for him. For Derek. Fighting for a path out of the arena. It's not, though, is it... if you don't succeed, it's the end for us."

            Stiles nodded, knowing there weren't words big enough to cover everything she deserved to hear. That same look, pained and a little angry, flickered over her features, but she dropped her eyes and nodded all the same. Stiles could guess how much it was for her to take in, and he fidgeted under the table while waiting for her to process.

            Finally, she looked up again. "Okay," she said. Now, though she sounded certain, there was a tremble in her voice. "What can I do to help?"

 

* * *

_Southern Ridgebacks are roughly 20-25 feet_

_in length with a medium body build_

_and a wingspan of around 40 feet_

* * *

 

            He could feel the moon in the sky above him, dappled through the leaves and onto the forest floor beneath his paws. To his left, Cora's soft fur brushed against his own and Laura ran a few feet to their right. Above them flew Negira, her wingbeats ruffling the tips of the trees as she passed over them. She was patrolling the air, keeping watch on the wolves that ran the full moon freely.

            It felt good to run, to let his problems melt away with every stride, until there was only his heartbeat pumping in his ears, the feel of the forest and the pack and the mother moon. He could forget, for just a little while. Forget the feel of blood on his hands, forget the twist of guilt in his gut every time he thought about the people who had given their lives, trusting that he would succeed when it felt so much like there was no way to win.

            _Your mind is unsettled, Wolf._

            Derek glanced up, saw the shadow that passed over the stars as Negira made a pass overhead. He could feel the press of her presence against his power, but now it felt more like a comfort than a threat. He raised his jaws, howling back to her.

            _So many forces oppose me. I hurt our people. They will have to hurt me._

            Stiles had come to him that morning, to tell him that he would have to take injuries in his next fight. Grievous ones, wounds that looked mortal, so that the ARC would begin to plan how to kill him inside the pit instead of out of it. The prospect was not appealing; his powerful alpha healing ability did nothing to dull the pain.

            The howling of the other alpha wolves in the distance drew him back to the present. Cora leaned in closer to him, though they didn't slow their pace. She knew how he felt; he had spoken with both of his sisters about his fears regarding the coming match. They could hear him now, even if they could not hear Negira's words.

            _Guilt consumes you,_ Negira agreed from close to the perimeter fence, the distance not making her thoughts any softer. _It shouldn't._

            _I killed one like you_ , he admitted after a time, the face of the darter dragon flickering in his mind, its sparkling eyes locked on his as its life faded away. _He died so that I would live._

            _Then he died with honor_ , she responded. He heard the beat of her wings approaching, felt the wind of her passing. _Your regret shames his gift_.

            Derek stumbled at the words, recovering enough to trot to a stop, looking skyward. She was already too far away for him to see her. His sisters trailed to a halt nearby, looking at him, and he could hear the others, the alpha pack, approaching from the fence in the distance.

            Though he wanted to ask how to honor the gift, he knew the answer. The darter dragon had given it to him even as its life ended: _Don't give up_.

            The numb, unfeeling place he had sequestered himself to since his first Division 1 fight felt like giving up. He had let the feelings of guilt and fear take root, drag him down into despair. The loss of life had weighed so heavily on him that he had begun to think that there was no way out. There was only blood and pain and death awaiting all of them, and he had begun to think he was the cause of it.

            _You think too loud, Pup._

            Derek turned at the voice, tail raising at the sight of Deucalion and the others emerging from the woods. Their yips and howls had fallen silent, all except for their leader's. Deucalion was larger than the others, all black save the red of his eyes. A brown wolf curled at his side, her fur tinted with rusty red, and a grey wolf emerged from behind her. The twins, white-furred and red-eyed, traveled as one, circling around Derek and his sisters, watching.

            _Run with us,_ Deucalion said, the small sounds dripping from his jaws and echoing in Derek's mind. The noise and feeling prickled Derek's fur. _We will quiet your mind._

            A part of him wanted to ask why he should, to tell him that he knew Deucalion was no friend. He knew that if they were to face one another in the pit, Duke would not hesitate to kill him. He would feel no remorse afterward. Given the choice, Derek wasn't sure he would let Deucalion out of his pen or award him any amount of freedom when the time came. The only reason they ran the moons in peace was because Negira flew above them.

            Her shadow passed over the group even as he thought of her, and all the wolves looked skyward.

            _Lizard_ , Duke called up at her.

            _Dinner_ , Negira responded loftily.

            Deucalion wrinkled his snout in distaste. He looked back down at Derek, but it was Kali who weaved forward to speak.

            _Your mind's tied up in the arena,_ she said slowly, crimson eyes trained on him. Laura stepped between them with a low sound, and Kali halted, but didn't shift her gaze from Derek. _We've been hearing talk._

 _They believe you're going to free them all,_ Ennis chimed in with low, grumbly noises. _Start some kind of_ revolution.

            _I will,_ Derek said, teeth bared. Laura snapped her jaws to punctuate the promise.

            At that, the alpha pack began to yip and howl, laughter of the lupine variety. Cora made a dash for the twins, who had gotten too close to Derek's rear flank, and they backed off, sounding more like hyenas than wolves. Derek flicked his ears back, but he made no other move.

            _We're not here to fight,_ Deucalion said, just sharply enough to be an order for the others, who fell silent, grouping up with him. _You don't want to run with us?_

            _I don't know whose side you're on,_ Derek told him. _I can't trust you._

            Duke lowered his head just a little, just for a second, and then pricked his ears forward. _That human whelp that brought you home has been putting us into the pit for years. Making us fight. How much blood is in the sands by our claws? Do you suppose they sign our contracts with it?_

 _He's not like that,_ Derek said, tracking Deucalion as he slinked forward.

            _We know_ , Deucalion admitted, giving Derek pause. _It wasn't like this before you came. We had no reason to believe he was different than the others._

 _And now?_ Derek asked. _Where will your loyalties lie, when it comes to the end?_

 _You fight for all of us_ , Deucalion said. It sounded very much as though it pained him to admit it. _We will owe you no blood debt for that. We will stand with you, and your human if we must._

            _For how long?_ Derek asked. _Will you still say the same, once the cage doors are open?_

            _Look around you, Pup,_ Kali said, stepping up beside Duke. _The door's open. You're running free the same as we are. In the whole entire world, do you think there's a single other filthy human willing to let our kind do this? Is there even one of them that could possibly fulfill a promise of freedom to all supers?_

            Derek licked his lips, looking between the alphas. Their heartbeats were even and steady, so at least they sounded honest, even if they didn't sound nice. He could hear the sub-vocal growl in Laura's chest, and feel the way Cora's fur prickled as she stood so close to him.

            Above them, the beat of wings, a shadow passing over the stars.

            _Run with them, Wolf._

            He looked up to the sky, tracing her movement. _They want my blood_ , he howled back to Negira before she was too far to hear.

            _They've had enough of the blood of their kin_ , she replied. _They will help you._

            Derek looked back down at the alphas, his gaze slipping sideways to his sisters. They glanced at him and he could see the worry there, smell their fear, their apprehension. The alphas were powerful and unkind, but they were wolves just the same as Derek and Laura and Cora. He turned back to the alphas.

            _I will not run with you,_ he said evenly, taking a step forward. His sisters moved to flank him, strong and sure. _But you may run with us._

            With that, Derek and his pack sprang forward, Laura to his right, Cora to his left, and they disappeared into the trees. Above them soared a dragon, blacker than the moon-bright night through which she flew. On their heels followed five alpha werewolves, filling the forest with wolfsong.

           

* * *

Chimera Fictus _is capable of spitting an_

_acidic compound from its lion head_

_Additionally,_ C. Fictus _’ blood has been_

_found to be extremely acidic in nature._

* * *

 

            Springing backward, Derek only just managed to avoid being hit by the armored, black tail. The spear-like head of it slammed into the ground where he'd just been standing, sending damp sand up in a spray. A howl of frustration rent the air, and the chimera hybrid launched itself at Derek, claws stretched wide.

            _Duck_

            Derek dropped without hesitation, and the creature flew over his head, landing awkwardly in the sand behind him. He spun around, breath ragged, just in time to see it coming back for him. He felt its claws latch into his side, though it was only a superficial hold, and he let it drag him into the sand with it.

            The scent of blood, his own blood, blossomed in the air between them as he pulled himself free of the claws. The creature mantled its flightless wings over them, blocking the view of the audience.

            Derek stopped struggling, pinned beneath the two huge, cat paws. The chimera leaned down, putting its huge, horned lion's head near his own. Derek could smell the acid in its mouth, but it kept its jaws closed. Even though it had agreed to hurt him, it was protecting him. Knowing that didn't make it easier, it just left him emptier than if he could blame the kill on the will to survive.

            _My blood burns, Wolf_

"I won't let it kill me," Derek swore, quietly. A tone sounded, signaling five minutes.

            _See that you don't,_ the chimera told him. _I am ready. I wish you luck._

            Derek took a deep breath and gave the chimera nod. Reaching up, he let the alpha transformation take him fully, let blood rage cloud his mind just enough to give him the strength he needed. Then he let his claws tear into flesh, raking open furrows down the chimera's throat. Burning hot blood sprayed down on Derek even as he used his hind feet to shove the chimera off to one side.

            As Derek rolled to right himself, he realized just how badly it was actually _burning._

            A hoarse scream tore out of his throat and Derek scrabbled away from the still-twitching corpse, wiping futilely at his skin. The acidic blood was eating into him, bubbling and melting flesh. He threw himself into the sand, aware on some level that he was shouting as he scrubbed sand into the growing lesions in an attempt to rid himself of the blood. He hadn't expected it to work so quickly or so powerfully. His only chance to survive it was to scrape it off of him in the sand.

            What felt like an eternity later, something cold sprayed across him, and he became vaguely aware of the shouting of humans all around him. Handlers. He batted at whatever they were putting on him, until he realized it had to be water from one of the cleaning hoses. That meant the chimera had fallen still, truly dead, and there would soon be medical help.

            He rocked up to his hands and knees and heard the sharp crackle of a zap-stick nearby. Isaac's voice said something he didn't understand, or maybe his face had been damaged by the acid too badly to hear. In an attempt to appear non-threatening, Derek held up both his hands, palms out, and tried to turn into the ongoing spray.

            It washed over him and he thought he felt a hand on his back. Over the scent of blood and water and sand, he could smell Isaac, and he tried to relax. The handler began to gently rub at Derek's wounds, cleaning out sand and trace amounts of now-diluted blood. Derek could hardly feel anything except faint pressure, his nerves destroyed.

            He wasn't sure exactly when he passed out, but he knew it was a blessing.

 

* * *

 _The brain of_ Chimera Chimera _is typically located_

_in the central head, though which head is central varies_

_Should the dragon head be central, the creature often_

_has the ability to spit a venomous secretion_

* * *

 

            Stiles was waiting at the exit gate, watching anxiously as the veterinary technicians hauled Derek onto a gurney. At the touch of a button, it powered up and pushed itself away from the ground, sending bits of sand whirling away from the vents that allowed it to hover. The handlers and arena workers cleared away, and the techs quickly began moving in Stiles' direction. One of the guards entered the code to open the gate and it began to hiss upward. Stiles had to step aside to let them all pass.

            "Is he alive?" Stiles called, feeling no small amount of desperation. They had gone over how acidic chimera saliva was, how their spit could hit yards away, but he had never expected _this_ level of damage. He never expected Derek would practically gut the thing on top of himself, or that its _blood_ would be even more acidic than its bite.

            One of the techs slowed long enough to look back at him, to take in his clean, white suit and the registration papers outlined against his inner pocket. She gave him a sympathetic look. "For now," she said before hurrying after the others.

            He knew that they would be taking a faster route down to the clinic and start immediately doing whatever they could in order to save Derek's life. He wasn't allowed to follow their particular path, so he thanked the guard that had let him get this close, and ducked out of the gateway. Isaac and Erica were still helping the chimera's handlers in the pit, which meant that Stiles would be needed to give permission for arena-hired handlers to stay in Derek's room until his own arrived.

            His heartbeat felt tight in his fingertips as the elevator took him to the clinic level of the arena and he couldn't help the way his foot tapped erratically on the floor. He was impatient to get somewhere that he might be able to help, even though he knew how useless he was about to be. Finally the elevator dinged, and he bolted out into bright, white light.

            The clinic was not even remotely in disarray, even though Stiles thought it should have been. He could see where they had Derek, movement flickering as vets and techs moved fluidly around the room in order to treat him. Two arena-appointed handlers were waiting just inside the door, zap-sticks at the ready.

            Stiles knocked on the door, and one of them turned to see. She cracked the door and gave him a questioning look. "Thank you," Stiles blurted over the din of spraying water and clanking equipment. "For helping them start."

            "Sure thing," the woman replied, giving him a short nod. "Just... you know, make sure all the paperwork's right so we don't get in trouble?"

            "Of course," Stiles said. "And my own handlers will be here any minute, they're just helping out upstairs. With the- the other... the chimera."

            She gave him another smile, and then they both glanced to the interior of the room. "I've seen wolves survive worse," she said, obviously trying to be reassuring. "Forgot how acidic those hybrids can get though."

            Stiles swallowed and nodded. It had been a nightmare training Az when he'd first arrived at Stiles' stable. He was as much a hybrid as the one Derek had faced, although he'd never grown in the wings of his manticore father. The acidity of Az's saliva and blood had never been as bad as what Derek had just encountered. Stiles still had a few scars from when Az first arrived, but in the brief glimpse of Derek that Stiles had gotten, it looked as though a good portion of his skin had been chemically melted.

            "Th-thanks again," Stiles managed to say before retreating to the small waiting area. Only as he sat down did he realize he felt like he was about to shake apart. Derek was going to be fine, he told himself. He was alive, and they could get him cleaned up and he would heal.

            Down the hall, an elevator dinged, and a much less urgent group of handlers and staff appeared. Erica and Isaac were with them, looking exhausted. Isaac had hastily-applied bandages on his hands, and Erica only spared Stiles a cursory glance before guiding Isaac toward one of the human treatment rooms. He had been burned, Stiles surmised, either in the process of helping Derek or in the cleanup of the deceased.

            A cry of pain sounded from the area where Stiles had entered, and he turned in time to see another warden dashing across the waiting room toward the large, red bin that had exited the elevator with Stiles' handlers. The tip of a long, black scorpion's tail dangled over on edge of it, and Stiles didn't have to guess what was inside.

            He felt ill as he watched the chimera's warden reaching in over the side of the red bin. He could hear her crying, calling the chimera's name over and over, as though it might wake up and come back to her. There was no coming back from what Derek had done to it. As much as Stiles wanted to go over, he knew there were no words that could heal what she was feeling.

            Arena staff approached her then, and she let them pull her away from the bin. They would take her to a private room and have someone wait with her while others took the remains of her fighter to a back room. They would clean it thoroughly so none of the blood would corrode the wood, and then they would place its remains inside of a crimson box. When she was recovered enough, she would bring down the paperwork necessary to retrieve it, and either take it home by the truck it arrived on or have it incinerated on-site.

            Stiles knew every step of the loss of a fighter. He had seen too many people walk away with a red box being carted behind them. He had sat in waiting rooms just like this a hundred times, waiting for his fighter to be released so they could go home, listening to the losing party react to their loss. Grief, anger, excitement. He had seen a range of reactions.

            _What if it had been Negira?_

            Derek's words came back to him as he watched them push the blood-red bin across the area toward the incinerator hallway.

            It could have been, Stiles thought. It could be her any time he took her into the arena. Someday, it _would_ be her, and there would be nothing Stiles could do about it if this all didn't get torn down now. If they continued to keep supers caged up like dangerous animals, continued pitting them against one another to the death, continued letting the ARC follow the path the hunters had set, they might as well have all signed the extermination papers themselves.

            He couldn't do that. He couldn't lose Derek, or Negira, or any of the others like this. He couldn't sign the papers to send them home in a blood-colored coffin.

            It had to stop, and he was going to have to be the one to stop it.

 

* * *

_The bite of a werewolf was once thought to actually_

_transform a human into a werewolf thus allowing_

_bitten humans to be used in the arena games_

* * *

 

            The October air was chill around them as they watched the children playing by the riverbank. Derek was stretched out at Stiles' side in full wolf form, his jaw set gingerly on his paws. He was still surprised he had survived his mistake. The acid had burned right down to his bones in some areas.

            It had already been two days since his fight, and he still couldn't see properly out of his right eye. The hearing on that side of his head was reduced to a perpetual, dull ringing noise. His fur had come through the ropey, ridged scar tissue where it could, but it still looked as though he might have mange on top of having been mauled. His skin, where he could feel it through the severe nerve damage, felt tight as it healed.

            He knew he looked more like a monster than ever.

            "You'll fit right in," Stiles had told him before they left.

            Derek wasn't sure what exactly he was supposed to be fitting in _as,_ except that whatever black fur he'd managed to grow matched the humans around them. None of the children were wearing normal clothes; they had on somber black outfits and carried little brightly colored buckets full of a rainbow of paper scraps.

            When Stiles had asked if he wanted to come down to the festival, Derek had been uncertain. He hadn't gone before, and he wasn't sure he wanted to go while he was still feeling so vulnerable, but Stiles had assured him that no one would be out to hurt him. The Festival of Souls was a peaceful event, meant to remember and honor those they had lost.

            With all of the loss Derek had been experiencing lately, he had decided it would be a good time to go along. Stiles had asked him to use his wolf form when they arrived, which Derek reluctantly agreed to do. It had made sense when Stiles explained it; being as injured as he was in human form could be scary. Being injured as a wolf was more likely to inspire an amount of sympathy.

            Now they were seated on a soft quilt that Stiles had fluffed out for them, a small, wooden boat at their side. Stiles had picked up dinner at a diner along the way, hamburgers and fries, and he'd been feeding bits of it to Derek all evening. Slowly, Stiles had slipped farther and farther from a seated position until he was practically snuggled up against Derek's warm body, watching the kids run around.

            It was almost two hours before one of the kids had the courage to approach them, her little bucket in hand. She kept her eyes on Derek, although she spoke to Stiles. "Can I pet your dog, mister?"

            "If he wants you to," Stiles said, making no move to get up.

            The girl set her bucket down and walked around to Derek's face. She plopped right down in front of him, and put both of her hands in sniffing range. He gave her hands a small nuzzle of permission. "What happened to him?" she asked as she reached up and gently patted his heavily-scarred head.

            "He was in an arena fight," Stiles told her honestly.

            The girl froze and Derek heard her heartbeat patter rapidly as she realized that he wasn't a dog at all. Without thinking too hard about it, Derek opened his mouth and gave her fingers a reassuring lick. She jumped, but didn't bolt. "Oh. What's his name?"

            "Derek," Stiles said. "He came with me tonight because he lost his mom a long time ago."

            "Oh," the girl said, sounding sad for Derek. Instead of scooting away, she scooted closer and wrapped her arms around his thick neck in a hug. "I lost my mom, too, puppy."

            Derek gave a little whine, and pressed against the girl. No child should have to lose a parent that young. She couldn't have been over nine. She buried her nose in the soft patch of fur behind his healed ear, and gave him a kiss before releasing him. He watched as she stood up and crossed back to her bucket, selecting a piece of blue paper from within.

            "Can I write her name for him?" she asked politely, plucking a sparkly pen from the side of the bucket.

            "Of course you can," Stiles said. "Her name was Talia. T-A-L-I-A." He watched her as she wrote and when she was finished, Stiles held out a hand for the slip of paper.

            She passed it over, and then gave Stiles a thoughtful look. "Who are you here for?"

            Stiles smiled, and Derek could smell the sadness on him then. "I guess we're three of a kind tonight," he said quietly. "I'm here for my mom, too."

            Without a word, the little girl plucked another strip of paper from the bucket, this one orange, and looked pointedly at Stiles, awaiting his mother's name.

            "Claudia," Stiles said, voice a little shaky. "C-L-A-U-D-I-A."

            The little girl finished scribing the name, and then passed the paper to Stiles as well. He let the little orange and blue papers rest in the palm of his hand, and smiled at her. Beside him, Derek made a little yip, and Stiles jolted at the reminder.

            "Can we write one for you?" Stiles asked. Derek put his head down, satisfied. He had spent a lot of time cutting up many colors of paper that morning while Stiles assembled the little boat. They were going to put them to good use if he had anything to say about it.

            "Okay," said the girl. She watched Stiles pick a purple piece of paper from their own bucket, and a solemn black pen from its side. "Marie. M-A-R-I-E." She accepted the paper when Stiles was finished, and put it into her bucket, on the side of the partition that was almost empty. "Thank you."

            "May your loved ones always be remembered," Stiles told her.

            "And yours," she replied, lifting her bucket. "And Derek's."

            She disappeared into the throng of children, and Derek flopped back over onto his side. Though his eyes closed, he didn't miss the shift of someone from a neighboring blanket, or the rapid beating of their heart. He cracked one eye in time to see someone leaning over to speak to Stiles under their breath.

            "Excuse me, but did I hear correctly? You've got a wolf-shifter here with you?" a woman asked, sounding more than a little scandalized.

            "Actually, he's a werewolf," Stiles said, not even looking in the woman's direction. Derek could feel his heart beating steady and even- he wasn't worried about them at all. "A Division 1 fighter."

            The woman gasped, recoiling, and Derek could hear her heartbeat rocketing. "Is that- is that _safe?_ " she gasped. "Honey, look, this man has a werewolf with him."

            Derek sat up and opened his eyes fully, turning slightly to see the couple beside them. The man was looking over at them, studying Derek and then Stiles as if there was a mystery to be solved. There was something _familiar_ about him, but before Derek could place what it was, the guy laughed and put his arm around his wife.

            "I thought I recognized you two," he said to Stiles, who was sitting up straighter now as well. "It's good to see you again, Stiles. And... Derek, was it?"

            "Good to see you as well, James," Stiles greeted with a half smile. "How are the kids?"

            At that, Derek realized where he recognized the man. He had been one of the chaperones at the summer lock-in, and Stiles had known that. He'd known that since they took a seat here in the first place, because the couple had been seated before Stiles and Derek had even arrived. Derek rolled his eyes and flopped back onto his side, deciding that Stiles didn't need guarding.

            "So, I take it he had a fight recently?" James asked, motioning to his own face to indicate Derek's injuries. "Seems pretty dangerous for such a nice person. Why not Division 3?"

            "I'm in a contract to send him to a sanctuary," Stiles answered, reaching in to select two pieces of paper from his set of blanks. "If he can win a certain number of matches, he can get out of the arena for good. Be free."

            "Free?" the woman asked, sounding dubious. "But isn't that... dangerous? Supers just... wandering about?"

            "Not any more dangerous than you or me," Stiles told her. "They're people, the same as us."

            "Yes, well, James did say that yours could talk like a human," she said, clearly not impressed. "But he looks very much like an animal to me."

            At that, Stiles' heartbeat rose, and Derek lifted his head to see. Stiles' fingers curled into the quilt, and Derek reached one paw out and set it over the top of Stiles' hand. It wasn't worth a fight, or even a confrontation. This was a peaceful night, a night for remembering the losses they had all faced.

            Instead, Derek clambered to his feet - much to the distress of the lady - and located the discarded blanket Stiles had thrown off of him when cuddling with a werewolf had proven too warm. He lifted it carefully, and nosed his way under it, until it covered most of him. Then he worked his way back to a human form, careful to keep the blanket wrapped over him in the process. Humans weren't used to people being naked- that was for animals.

            When he poked his head out, he gave her his best grouchy face. "Ma'am, I assure you that I am more than an animal," he said firmly. Beside him, Stiles turned a burst of laughter into a not-very-discreet, snorting cough.

            "Oh! Oh my!" she exclaimed, looking for all the world like she wanted to move away from them despite that there was nowhere to go. They were surrounded by other festival-goers. "I didn't- You can understand me?"

            "Yes," Derek said. "And you weren't being very nice."

            "Oh, I- I'm sorry, I didn't... realize..." she trailed off, staring at him with wide eyes. "So you really are a werewolf? And you fight?"

            "Unfortunately," Derek told her. "I'd prefer not to, but humans don't... give us a lot of choice. Stiles is trying to."

            "Th-this is... oh, my," she said faintly.

            Derek glanced to Stiles, who was watching him with the sort of fond smile that said he was thinking a whole lot of things Derek was going to hear about later. He didn't seem upset, however, so Derek decided to take one more chance. He sat up, holding the blanket around himself as he did so, and gently took the two strips of paper Stiles had pulled out a few moments ago.

            "Stiles told me that everyone who comes to the festival has lost someone," he said slowly. "He told me that you share the pain of loss by sharing the names of those you loved with one another. If you're here, then I feel safe assuming you've lost someone."

            "My sister," the woman said, still looking mystified. "Claire."

            "C-L-A...?" Derek began, writing the first three letters. He knew that his ability to write would be even more impressive than his ability to speak.

            "I-R-E," the woman finished for him. She seemed to gather her wits, and extracted a piece of paper from her own bucket. "And you- I heard you lost your mother. Talia?"

            Though the loss was old, it still stuck in Derek's throat when she said it, and he found himself just nodding. She quickly scribed his mother's name on the paper, and handed one to James so that he could do the same. Derek traded her his own slip for the two from them, and then asked for a name from James. This they traded for two slips with _Claudia_ written on them. Stiles deposited all four slips into the receiving portion of their bucket.

            "May your loved ones always be remembered," Derek told them solemnly, confident that he had passed their judgments in good favor now.

            "And yours," James said, hugging his wife a little closer to his side. He gave them both a smile, and returned to watching the kids move amongst the plethora of other blankets and families awaiting the end of the evening.

           Derek snuggled back down under the blanket, and let his wolf form take over again. A moment later he wriggled out, and padded around Stiles, who had returned to laying on his back. He circled a few times, until Stiles laughed and reached up to grab at the ruff of patchy fur around his neck. Derek let himself be pulled down beside Stiles, giving Stiles' face a few sloppy licks before curling up halfway on top of him.

            They passed most of the rest of the festival like that, greeting children who approached them and trading slips of paper with names on them. By the time the temporary dock that had been constructed lit up with bright, yellow lights, their blank papers were gone and their bucket was full of slips of paper. Stiles began putting them into the little boat they had brought along with them.

            Stiles had told him what they were going to do, but it was different seeing the event in person. In small groups, the humans were getting together. They carried their boats down to the docks together, sometimes one boat for a whole family, sometimes one for each person.

            Derek sat up so that he could watch the first of them. An attendant at the end of the dock held out long, thin stick with a flame at the end. One careful motion lit the inside of the boat with a mellow, reddish glow. Fascinated, Derek watched as the black snake of the river became dotted with spots of warm light. As more boats were lit, Derek began to see a variety of colors, until there was a rainbow armada floating on the sluggish waters.

            "Our turn," Stiles said softly, when the crowd had thinned some. He patted Derek's shoulder and then clambered to his feet.

            Following suit, Derek stuck close enough to Stiles' side to feel every brush of his pant leg as they walked. Almost absently, Stiles curled his long fingers along the nape of Derek's neck, keeping them both steady as they picked their way down to the dock. Warmth tingled over Derek's skin from the contact.

            No one stopped them as they stepped onto the wooden dock. Derek hesitated as his paws his the wood, feeling unsteady stepping out over the water. The wood trembled slightly with the movement of the river, making it feel unstable. Stiles fell still behind him, looking down.

            "It's okay," Stiles murmured. "It'll hold."

            _I don't know how to swim_ , Derek thought, even though there was no way Stiles could hear him. The deepest water he'd ever been in was a stream at the preserve, and that had only covered his paws by a few inches.

            Stiles' fingers pressed against his skin, then he smoothed his hand over Derek's blotchy fur. "I won't let you fall."

            Getting hold of himself, Derek took another step forward, and another, until they arrived in front of the attendant. The man smiled at them, eyes on Derek. "Beautiful animal there, sir," he said as he offered up the lighting stick.

            Pulling his hand from Derek's neck, Stiles held the boat steady with both hands to be lit like the others. "Thank you, but he's not an animal," Stiles said patiently. "He's a werewolf, and a person."

            "Ah," the man said without judgment. The boat flared to life, the same shade of blue-green as Derek's eyes. He dropped to one knee so that he was on Derek's level, looking into his one good eye. "You're very beautiful, sir. My condolences on your loss." He glanced to Stiles as he rose again. "Both of you."

            "Thank you," Stiles said. Derek looked up, ragged ears twitching forward at the confusion in Stiles' voice. He was just as confused at the odd reception of the truth.

            The man smiled. "I was a warden for a while," he explained softly. "A couple years. She's the reason I'm here."

            Throat tight, Derek moved forward to close the gap between them. He nudged his nose against the man's hand and felt him pull away a little. Then he reached down, fingers stroking over Derek's fur, over his cheeks, rubbing behind his damaged ears carefully. It felt good, for such a sad gesture. He pressed into the touch, hoping it was any amount of comfort to the man. He had lost his fighter, possibly a lover, and it made Derek wonder how many others there were. How many were like him- how many people had left the arena after losing someone they cared for?

            "Thank you," the man told him softly, his touch lingering just a moment longer. "May your loved ones always be remembered."

            "And yours," Stiles said, offering him a smile. He looked to Derek, and then stepped to the edge of the dock to kneel.

            Gently, Stiles set the boat afloat on the river. The flame flickered as it settled into the endless, little waves and began to move toward the others that were drifting away from them. Derek watched until it was lost amongst the others, and then he nosed at Stiles' arm. There were people waiting to have their boats lit.

            Derek didn't miss the way Stiles wiped at his eyes, or the sniffle he gave as he clambered to his feet. Together, they moved off of the dock, Stiles' fingers in his fur. They walked back to the car along the water's bank, watching the flickering lights of all the lost souls as they traveled down the river.

 

* * *

  _The victorious warden shall receive from the house_

_their entrance fee plus 15% of the house Division earnings_

_for their Division 1 match date._

* * *

 

            Derek buried his face in his pillow, trying to escape the acrid smell that was attempting to drag him out of sleep. It was cloying and rough and it didn't belong inside the house, inside his den. It belonged in the open air, to the dragons and the manticores. It belonged on tiny boats floating down rivers into the dark beyond, carrying words of love to those who had been lost.

            "Derek," said an urgent voice close to him. He crunched his eyes shut tighter, hoping it would go away. He was tired, and it was still hours until the moon would yield to the sun, but the voice just repeated his name louder.

            "What?" he said groggily, peeling his eyes open. His body was working overtime trying to heal the acid burns over most of his body, even though it was nearly a week after his fight. To top it off, Stiles had kept him up later than usual going over possible future opponents.

            "Something's wrong," murmured Cora from beside him. There was a thread of fear in her voice that shot through Derek, waking him fully.

            As he sat, he realized he recognized the scent.

            Smoke. Flames.

            "Get up," he barked, grabbing at Laura as he stumbled to his feet. "Laura!"

            Cora was on her feet in an heartbeat, helping him to haul a confused Laura up as well. She'd been up late with them, and was just as exhausted. Derek could smell the second she realized what was going on, her fear blooming thick and sour into the air. "Fire," she rasped, as awake as they were now. "Fire!"

            "Get out," Derek ordered them. "Wake who you can, but get out."

            "I'm going to get Isaac," Cora said firmly. She was already halfway to all fours, fur rippling over her body as she leaped forward.

            Derek growled, but there wasn't time to argue. He raced her to the door, his hand still grasped around Laura's. He touched the handle of the door, found it warm but not burning. He ripped the door open, and thick, black smoke poured into the room. Laura pulled her hand from his, dropping down as she shifted, so she could run beneath the roiling smoke.

            "Stay together," he called after them fiercely as the two disappeared down the smoky hallway together.

            Without hesitating any further, Derek slipped out of what little clothing he wore to sleep in, and took his alpha form. He knew it would handle the smoke better. He could hear the fire gnawing on the house, spitting out sap and paint and sending up plumes of ashy smoke that curled around on the ceiling. Memories of the Hale fire surged up at the sight, threatening to strangle him.

            _Save the kids, I have to save the kids_. He remembered it being the only thought in his head.

            He remembered being too late.

            There were no kids here, he told himself, forcing his limbs to move and keeping low to the ground on all fours. There was only Stiles, one room down the hallway. His bedroom was in the direction of the fire, but the fact that Stiles hadn't come to fetch them told Derek that he was still inside.

            Derek had to find him, before it was too late.

            Just like the nursery door at the Hale facility, Stiles' door was locked when he reached it. All of Derek's hair stood on end as he tried the door again. Stiles _never_ locked his door.

            Derek roared, more than loudly enough to wake Stiles, and got no response. Terrified now, he threw his shoulder against the door, testing the give and feeling it shudder. He didn't have time to wait for Stiles to wake up and figure out what was going on. The fire was licking at the end of the hallway, creeping closer by the second. They needed to get _out_.

            He took a breath as close to the ground as he could get, and then threw himself at the door hard enough to splinter the wood. In a matter of seconds he was scraping and clawing his way through its remains and into Stiles' room. They had to get out of here _now_.

            "Stiles!" he yelled, voice distorted by the shift. He caught a lungful of smoke, and coughed harshly to clear it. He could feel heat pressing in around him, roiling in from the hallway. " _Stiles!_ "

            Something was _wrong_ , Derek thought frantically as he dashed to the bedside. Stiles was just lying there, face slack and body relaxed. He couldn't hear a heartbeat through the roar of the fire, but he could see Stiles breathing. He could smell chemicals on Stiles' skin, and a part of him knew that whatever was going on, Stiles wasn't going to get up on his own.

            He climbed halfway onto the bed and hurriedly scooped Stiles up into his arms. It felt like holding a doll, all of Stiles' limbs loose and unresponsive. Derek's stomach swooped in fear, but he pushed it down. Survive first, be afraid later, he reminded himself.

            The fire was moving quickly, closing off their escape through the house. He looked between the window and the door, and decided he could survive a two-story drop. At least it was better than facing the fire. He didn't think he could make it through to the stairway anymore anyway.

            Carrying Stiles, he crossed the room and reached for the window latches only to find that they had been _melted_. He stared for a moment before he realized what he was looking at, and then a deep, seething rage seized him so hard he nearly lost control of himself.

            Someone had intended to _trap_ Stiles here. Someone had tried to _murder_ him.

            Whoever had planned this obviously hadn't counted on Stiles being rescued by a werewolf.

            With a snarl, Derek lashed out at the window, intending to just smash through the glass and escape.

            The second his paw hit the glass, it exploded outward, the heat from the fire desperate to equalize with the night air. Derek caught himself on the windowsill, gritting his teeth as his hand closed on the glass shards still intact in the frame. He glanced down at Stiles, but there was no response. Shifting around so that Derek could hold Stiles steady, he clambered halfway onto the sill. Below the ground was littered with broken glass, but the fire was reaching the bedroom entrance now.

            He was out of time.

            He drew in a breath of clean, night air, steeled himself for a rough landing and then pulled his other foot to the sill so he could jump. His shins gave only a slight protest as he landed, though he could feel the glass shards cutting into the pads of his feet as he stumbled away from the window wreckage. Far in the distance, he could hear the wail of a siren. People were coming.

            He dropped down to his knees and set Stiles on the soft grass of the lawn.

            Above the crackling sound of the fire, Derek could hear faint voices shouting. His throat felt raw from the heat and smoke, but he raised his jaws and howled as loudly as he could, voice booming out into the night. Someone had to find them. He had to get Stiles to safety. He had to figure out what was wrong with him and wake him up again.

            A howl answered him, high and thin, cracked with smoke-stress. Cora. She was getting closer, her voice joined by Laura's a second later. He sank back on his heels, remaining where he knelt beside Stiles as he howled back.

            _We're safe,_ he called.

            _Everyone's out_ , Cora answered.

            A long few moments later, the others rounded the corner of the manor. They must have gone down the stairs on the opposite side. He counted Cora, Laura, all three handlers, and Harvelle, who must have arrived early to make breakfast. They slowed when they saw him, though it was short-lived. They spotted Stiles, unmoving beside Derek, and broke into sprints.

            He wasn't sure what it was, but before they reached him, Derek let out a throaty snarl, crouching over Stiles protectively. A part of him knew they weren't here to hurt Stiles, he knew that these humans were coming to help, but seeing them running toward him while he was in fighting form roused a feral response.

            The handlers froze a few yards from him, Cora and Laura on their heels. Isaac stepped forward first, hands up and palms out. "Derek," he said gently. "I'm not going to hurt Stiles. Is he... is he alive?"

            Derek's lips peeled away from his fangs as he wrestled with alpha instincts. Stiles was his anchor. Stiles was _his_ , and someone had done something awful to him. Someone had made Stiles go quiet, made him feel dead to Derek's touch. Someone had tried to kill Stiles, and Derek wasn't about to let anyone close enough to finish the job.

            "Derek," Erica said, equally soft. "Is Stiles alive?"

            "Yes," Derek gritted out, unable to help the soft growl that accompanied the confirmation. _Protect him_. The feeling screamed around inside of him, worse than any call of the moon.

            "Is he hurt?" Erica pushed. "Is he injured?"

            "I- I don't think so," Derek answered, trying to smooth his nerves. These were not the people who set his home on fire. They were not here to hurt him or Stiles. They were not here to put a collar on him and take him back to a dungeon. "He was unconscious when I found him. Someone..."

            He shook his head to clear it, and Cora took a hesitant step closer. He felt his hackles rise again, but he managed to force them to smooth. She saw the invitation, and a second later she was at his side, her cold nose against the crook of his neck. The energy sapped out of him, and he brought one arm up to hold her, clawed fingers curling into her loose ruff. Laura was there in the next heartbeat.

            He could smell the smoke on their fur, evidence of the fire. They were out. They were safe. They wouldn't be taken away from him again, turned into skeletons with names on their collars. It wouldn't be like last time; no death, no loss, no wandering in the wreckage with the memory of other supers trapped in the blaze nipping at his conscience.

            Other supers...

            "The barn!" Derek blurted as he stumbled to his feet. This wasn't an accident. The door had been locked and the window latches melted in place. This fire, like the one of his childhood, had been set on purpose; the ARC had come for them. But unlike at the Hale facility, the stables here weren't attached to the living quarters of the humans.

            "The others," Boyd said, cottoning on fast. He took off as soon as the words were out of his mouth, and Isaac was on his heels only a second later.

            Erica watched them go, clearly torn between following them and staying with the trio of wolves. "It's not on fire," she said faintly. "There's no light."

            Derek followed her line of sight, eyes ticking over the barn and the little figures headed out to it. "None at all," he said. "The security is down. The others will get out."

            "What?" she said hotly, turning back to him as Cora bolted past her. "When the power shuts down the default is for the doors to lock."

            "They should, but they won't," Derek told her, watching Cora head to catch up to the handlers, having drawn the same conclusion. "This wasn't an accident. Stiles' door had been locked, and the window bolt was melted shut. They meant for him to die."

            "Arson," Erica breathed out, looking stunned.

            "That would explain why the fire-suppression system didn't activate," Harvelle said. Unsure of what that meant, Derek looked over. Harvelle's face was darkened with soot. "There are sprinklers on the ceiling," he explained. "If there's a fire detected, they fling around a lot of water until they're shut off. This-" he motioned to the crackling fire now licking out of Stiles' window and blackening the others, "-should never have been able to happen."

            Derek took that in, and then shook his head. "Unless someone shut them off before it started."

            "Exactly," Harvelle said, scrubbing the back of his hand over one of his eyes, as if it was bothering him. "We're all lucky you wolves woke up tonight."

            Erica stiffened and looked over her shoulder toward the road, and Derek figured the sirens were within her hearing range now. "Derek, you and Laura need to get out of here before the fire trucks arrive."

            "I'm not leaving him," Derek snapped, feeling his fur bristle. Something had been done to Stiles. It wasn't _safe_.

            "If those people get here and find an uncollared alpha werewolf crouched over the unmoving body of a human, what do you think the news is gonna have to say about it?" Erica asked, just as heatedly.

            Derek set his jaw and hunkered down by Stiles' side. "Laura, go to Cora. Ask Isaac or Boyd for collars, and get them to lock you together into the empty humanoid cage next to the twins."

            Laura hesitated, looking him over once, and then gave his cheek a quick nuzzle. With a quick glance to Erica, she took off for the barn as well. In seconds, she was halfway across the lawn. Before her, the barn came to life, a generator sputtering as the outside lights flickered on.

            "They'll kill you if they find you with him," Erica told him. Red and white lights began flashing at the end of the road. "They're going to take you away from him."

            "They can try," Derek growled, remaining crouched at Stiles' side. He couldn't leave; someone had tried to kill Stiles, and there was no way for them to know who. There was no way for them to know if anyone else had been paid off to finish the job, just in case he made it out.

            "Derek," Harvelle said. The two trucks were drawing closer, the sound of their tires on the pavement getting louder. "They're going to have to take Stiles away from here to help him. You have to let them."

            Derek didn't respond, just watched the trucks pull up the drive and park in front of the house. The bright headlights of a smaller, white vehicle washed over them, and then it was heading in their direction. Derek made himself as small as possible, throwing one last glance in Erica and Harvelle's direction.

            Two people in sharp, white uniforms spilled out of the ambulance and began to move for the small group. "Is anyone injured?" the man called.

            "We're not sure," Erica called back, over the shouting of the fire brigade. They were already pulling hoses from the trucks and attaching them to the red things on either side of the manor. "Stiles was unconscious when we found him, but he's breathing. We can't wake him."

            The paramedics reached the group and froze, both of them looking at Derek with wide eyes. "Is that... is that a werewolf?"

            "Yes," Harvelle said before Erica could speak up. "It's one of the homeowner's arena game pieces. It woke up everyone in the household when it smelled the fire, and it dragged Stiles to safety when none of us could. It's the only reason we're alive."

            "Can you- will it-" the woman began, looking confused about how to even begin dealing with the situation.

            "Derek," Erica said softly. "You have to let them see him."

           A low whine escaped Derek, but he pried himself away from Stiles' side enough that the paramedics could get to him. "Don't hurt him," he said as they moved in.

            "We won't," the woman said, voice trembling. He could tell how scared she was, and he backed up another few feet to give her room. She looked up, apparently realizing who had spoken. "You- was that you?"

            "Yes," he said, ducking his head.

            The other paramedic looked up as well, and for a few long seconds they were both just staring at him. He could almost feel them working through what it must mean that he could speak intelligibly. Then the man continued checking whatever he had been checking and said: "Then tell us what happened."

            "I- I smelled smoke, and I heard the fire. I've... heard a fire like this before." He flicked his gaze to Erica, whose eyes rolled upward in exasperation. They both knew that Derek talking to people outside the estate could get complicated, but he'd already started and she just motioned for him to continue. "I sent my sisters to wake the humans, and I went to make sure Stiles got out okay. When I got to his room, the door was locked. I... got in and he was unconscious. There was no smoke or fire in his room, but I couldn't wake him. The fire was coming, so I couldn't take him through the house. The window latch was melted shut, so I broke out and jumped down with him."

            Both newcomers looked to the house, scanning for the broken window in question. "The second story one?" the woman asked.

            "Yes," Derek confirmed.

            "And you aren't injured?" she inquired, twisting a little to look at him. He shook his head, though he knew how it looked. His body was still torn up with burn scars.

            "My injuries are from a fight a few days ago," he explained quickly. "They'll heal. Can you save him?" His voice cracked on the last words, his desperation for things to be okay clawing its way out of his throat. He wondered if this was how Stiles felt every time he was injured in a fight.

            She turned back to Stiles' prone form as her partner got up and moved for the ambulance. "I don't know," she said. "If there was no fire in his room but he was unconscious when you found him, I doubt it was the fire that did this."

            "Could someone have given him something?" Erica asked. "Like, drugs or something? A sedative?"

            The woman clambered to her feet as her partner returned with a gurney. She scratched the back of her head and then shrugged. "If that's so, it might wear off on its own." She turned to Derek, who had gotten to his feet as well. "We're going to take him to a hospital, where he can get care. If you want him saved, you are going to let us."

            Slowly, he sank back onto all fours, fear and anger playing tug of war inside of him. Finally, he nodded. She relaxed, and knelt to help move Stiles onto the equipment. His arms hung down so limply he looked dead, and it was only the steady beat of his heart that kept Derek rooted to where he stood. Once they had him moved, the woman turned to look at Erica.

            "One of you may come along," she said.

            "I'll go," Erica volunteered after exchanging a glance with Harvelle. "You'll tell the others?"

            "Aye," Harvelle said, then reached out and snagged Erica's pajama sleeve. "Don't let him out of your sight until someone else gets there," he told her seriously. "If someone did... you know. They may try again."

            Erica swallowed and nodded, her heartbeat rising slightly. "I'll be careful. Get someone out to us as soon as possible."

            Harvelle nodded, releasing her, and then they were gone. Derek watched them lift Stiles into the back of the ambulance, Erica climbing in and pulling the door shut behind her. It lit up with flashing red and white lights, and then began to back out of the drive. Derek stayed until it was on the road, and then stood up.

            "I'm going to check on the barn," he said. "Will you be okay?"

            "I'll go sit with the firefighters," Harvelle said. "Be careful, Derek. And remind me to make you a really big cake for getting us all out."

            Derek smiled and reached out to touch Harvelle's shoulder with the backs of his knuckles. Then he dropped back to all fours and began to race across the lawn. In almost no time at all, he reached the door. It was ajar, so he slipped past it, nose in the air. He could smell blood and acid, but the lights were on and no one was screaming.

            "Cora?" he called. "Laura?"

            "Derek!" Laura answered.

            He trotted into the main hallway and froze at the sight before him. Cora, Laura, and the two handlers were standing in the middle of the main hall, forming a semi-circle around what appeared to be a pile of badly mangled flesh. A quick glance to either side told Derek all of the pen doors were shut and locked. He could hear the heartbeats of all of the supers in the barn and not one of them was out of place or missing.

            "What happened?" he asked as he moved toward the others.

            "We took care of it," came a voice from Derek's left as he passed Duke's cage. He paused and caught sight of Deucalion lounging with his feet kicked up on the small front porch of his house-front.

            "What was 'it'?" Derek asked, though he had a feeling he knew.

            "Trouble," Deucalion said dismissively. "Figured our big, bad warden would have enough on his hands tonight. A stable full of free-ranging... _us_ wouldn't have done."

            Derek looked over at his sisters and the handlers. Isaac was just staring at the bloody remains, looking like he was going to be sick. Boyd was on the phone, although he wasn't saying anything. "You killed a human," Derek said slowly. "It was here to set you free. You could have left."

            "And go where, Pup?" Duke asked, removing his feet from the stool in front of him and sitting up straight. Though his eyes were as milky as ever, Derek felt as if Deucalion could see him. "Great Blue Yonder? There's nothing out there except another cage, and a guaranteed worse one at that. As distasteful as it is, our best shot at anything more than that is to stay put right here with you lot like we said we would."

            "You can't _kill humans_ ," Derek snarled, drawing attention to them both. Deucalion's laughter sounded hollow and eerie in the silence of the stable.

            "Where do you think this is headed?" Duke asked harshly, a wry grin still on his face. "When the gate opens and your little revolution begins, what exactly do you think is going to happen? What you've started, what you're asking for- it doesn't stop at first blood, boy. One side or the other gets sent home in a redbox. You want to start that fight, you'd better make sure you're ready to kill a few humans."

            Derek's heart sank at the reminder. They weren't just heading for freedom. They were heading for a war which would only yield their freedom if they won. "Not like this," he breathed, dropping his gaze away from Deucalion. "We don't have to be killers."

            He could feel Deucalion's sightless eyes on him as he moved past, heading for the others. Isaac shifted to make room for him in their semi-circle, and Derek came to a stop a few feet from the body. He wasn't sure it was in a condition to call it a body. This wasn't a werewolf kill; some of the remains were still smoking from the acidic saliva chimeras produced. He would recognize the scent anywhere now.

            "Az did this," he said quietly.

            "Az is in his pen," Isaac pointed out quietly, glancing to Boyd, who still appeared to be holding a phone silently to his ear. "His locked pen."

            "Then he went back in," Derek said. "They all did."

            Isaac and Boyd shared a look, and then Boyd straightened up considerably. "Yes, hello. I'm calling to report an accidental death. ... Yes, I've already notified the police, and they will arrive shortly." He paused and Derek heard a tinny, garbled voice on the other end. "Someone broke into our stables, and disengaged the locks on our chimera pen, we believe with malicious intent. The chimera is safely locked up but unfortunately the intruder did not survive the encounter."

            There was another long pause, and Boyd looked doubtfully down at the partially-melted remains on the floor. "Yes I'm sure. Very dead."

            "I can pull the security camera feed, if whoever this was didn't disable it," Isaac said quietly. Boyd nodded, still listening on the other end.

            "My coworker informs me we can try to pull security camera footage, will that be helpful?" Boyd asked during a pause in the noise. "All right then. I'll call back when we have the police report and the footage."

            As the phone screen went dark, he turned his attention back to Derek and the others. "Police will be here soon. Derek, it'd be a good idea for you to be in a pen when they get here."

            "Yes," Derek agreed. "Erica went with Stiles to the hospital but Harvelle told me to send one of you along with her. He doesn't think Stiles is safe. Someone set the fire at the house on purpose, and he thinks they may try to hurt Stiles again at the hospital."

            "I'll go," Boyd said, already heading for the exit.

            Isaac turned to Derek. "I can't put you in with the girls, unfortunately. But if you can get Ethan and Aiden to move to one pen, we can lock the door that separates their two pens and put you next to Cora and Laura."

            "That's fine," Derek said. "We'll sort that out while you find spare collars."

            Isaac nodded and took a deep breath. As Derek moved past him, he reached out and touched his shoulder. "We'll be okay," Isaac told him when Derek turned to look. "I mean, everyone. Stiles will be okay, and he'll get this all sorted out when he gets back."

            "Thanks," Derek said, slipping out of Isaac's touch. He wasn't sure the words were any comfort, but he appreciated the sentiment. "Let's just make it through tonight."

 

* * *

Chimera Manticore _has only a single head, that of a horned lion_

_and has been found almost exclusively with a scorpion tail_

C. Manticore _is capable of spitting a very acidic compound._

* * *

 

            Stiles watched the countryside blur by outside the window, his eyes not focusing on anything in particular. He had spent two days under observation at the hospital after waking up surrounded by bright lights and beeping objects. Boyd had been dozing lightly in the chair beside his bed, but he'd sat up as soon as the pace of Stiles' heart quickened to a waking tempo.

            Boyd had patiently explained that there had been a fire at the estate, and that Derek and his sisters had rescued everyone inside. There had been an incident at the barn as well, and Az had killed an intruder, but thankfully none of the supers had gotten out or away. Boyd was still working out as much with the regulatory departments as he could without Stiles' input, and Isaac had already submitted insurance documents for the manor.

            The doctors concluded that he'd been poisoned, though they were not sure by what or why his body had managed to shake the dose. One of them had ventured that it was possible he'd been given a dose of something that was meant to perfectly metabolize by the time of death, but that the dose had ended up being too low to actually kill him. That, or the dose had only been enough to keep him unconscious until the fire did the rest.

            It all left him with no answers and a sense of being completely drained.

            Between losing his home and heading toward an investigation of his stables and nearly dying, Stiles was at his limit. Finding out that Erica had gotten so stressed she'd had a seizure at the hospital while watching out for him had nearly pushed him over the edge. It was all he could do at the moment to remain conscious and keep his eyes open while Boyd drove him to the manor.

            He felt the rumble of the drive that lead to the house, and he picked up his head from where it had been resting against the window. Boyd glanced over and winced. Stiles could see why; the place looked terrible.

            A portion of the house on the far side had collapsed into burnt rubble. A few of the windows had blown out and most of them had soot-blackened borders. Bright yellow caution tape flapped in the slight breeze, wrapped around the entire house as far as Stiles could see. There were deep ruts in the lawn where the fire trucks had pulled off the drive to fight the flames.

            "Did anything survive?" Stiles croaked. He hadn't spoken much since waking up. His throat hurt from smoke inhalation and disuse.

            Boyd took a slow breath and let it out in a heavy sigh. "Some," he said. "Looks like the fire was set in the kitchen. Probably wanted it to look like an accident."

            Stiles closed his eyes and let his forehead rest against the cool window again. "And the library?" he asked, fearing the worst. All their work, all their evidence. A lot of it they had backed up digitally, since Boyd's scanner saved every scan it took, but for some of the really sensitive stuff, they hadn't wanted to leave electronic trails.

            "Smoke damage," Boyd said. "But the fire didn't get in. Lydia took all of the important information home."

            "Small mercies, I suppose," Stiles said listlessly. He straightened. "I need to see Derek."

            "Cool it," Boyd said. "He's in the stable. We've had to keep him and his sisters in pens while you were away. With all the cops and regulatory staff milling around, we figured it'd be best to at least look like we follow protocols."

            "I know," Stiles said. "Just- just drive back there. I don't need to stop at the house."

            "Sure thing, Boss," Boyd said, gently steering the car toward the barn instead. "You should know that Isaac has security footage to show you. He hasn't released it to anyone yet, since it's... weird."

            "Weird?" Stiles echoed, looking over.

            "Yeah..." Boyd said, not answering the question at all. He parked near the side entrance then got out to open Stiles' door and help him out of the car.

            Stiles shrugged him off, waving his hands at him. "Go let them out. I'm not dying."

            Boyd gave him a dubious look, but he disappeared into the barn without argument. Stiles shut the car door and then rested one hand on the car hood for a moment. As much as he hated to admit it, he was still trembling from the aftereffects. The labs had come back clean of anything they had checked for, so they had no idea when he would be fully recovered. Stiles wasn't stupid; he knew that translated to having no idea _if_ he would recover. There was every chance that whatever had been given to him had resulted in permanent nerve or muscle damage.

            With a sigh, he moved away from the car and entered the barn. He didn't even make it halfway down the first hall when Derek came around the corner and rushed to his side. Then he was being swept up off his feet and into a hug. Derek's nose was cold against the crook of his neck.

            "I'm okay," Stiles said as Derek set him down again.

            "I'm not," Derek replied, hands on Stiles' cheeks. "And you're shaking."

            "It'll wear off," Stiles said, knowing that Derek could tell he wasn't being honest. "Anyway, there are bigger problems right now."

            "The house," Derek agreed, dropping his hands and shifting to walk beside Stiles. He didn't touch him, for which Stiles was grateful. He'd had quite enough of being treated like he was going to fall apart at any second.

            "For one," Stiles said. "Thank you, by the way. For saving my life. They told me you jumped out of a second story window with me."

            "I did," Derek said, looking as though the memory made him as ill as Stiles felt. "I thought you weren't going to wake up."

            "I'm awake," Stiles assured him. "And I'm going to be fine, I just need to focus on getting this all taken care of so I can- so we can all move past it. Boyd told me Isaac has video footage I need to see. Where is he?"

            "In the small training room, getting the video ready for you," Derek told him. He must have figured that would be where Stiles wanted to go, as they were already moving in that direction.

            They traveled the rest of the way in silence, stopping only once for Stiles to close his eyes and let the dizziness pass. Isaac greeted them at the door, and motioned for them to take seats. Stiles watched him fiddle with the screen as they settled in to watch. A few moments later, the silent video surveillance began to play.

            "We have no proof of anything that was said," Isaac told him as they watched the darkened barn hallway. Little white numbers clicked by in the bottom corner. "But from what you can see, someone breaks in... here." He pointed to the emergency lights along the floor that brightened just a little, set off by motion.

            "And there's still been no identification?" Stiles asked.

            Isaac winced. "We're pretty sure Az... uh... well he _ate_ most of the... um, _facial region_ ," Isaac admitted, motioning around his face with one hand to illustrate. "DNA results should be released soon, if they come up with any hits. Somehow I'm doubting this person is going to be on file anywhere."

            "Yeah," Stiles agreed, eyes flicking back to the screen as the first real movement began. They watched in silence as a guy moved into the hall and headed straight for Negira's pen entrance. He pulled on the unlocked door and left it wide open as he headed for the next one. "They're unlocked. The power was out, the doors should have been in lockdown."

            "Yes," Isaac said. "The barn was on auxiliary power from the basement generator, which _should_ have put the entire building on lockdown until real power was restored. Additionally, since all of your pens are hydraulic locks, there's zero chance he pried or broke any of them open- even Negira can't actually break through them. So they had to have been unlocked by a code, or bypassed by someone incredibly good with computer systems. Unfortunately for him, not good enough."

            "What do you mean?" Stiles asked. "Looks like he did a pretty damn fine job breaking into all the pens to let everyone out."

            They watched as he opened Az's pen, and moved across the hall to open Deucalion's. Duke was standing on the front porch, waiting passively as the intruder opened his door. They could see words being exchanged, and Stiles' eyes widened as he saw Az slink out of his pen, clinging with sickle claws to the upper part of the fencing instead of going along the floor.

            "He doesn't see..." Stiles murmured.

            "We're not sure yet, but we think he expected them to get out fairly quickly," Isaac said. "He obviously knew Deucalion was there, and they're clearly speaking. Whoever this was, they knew about supers."

            On screen, the intruder started, and then whipped around to look at Az's pen door. There was no sign of the chimera now. The guy turned back around to look at Deucalion, who hadn't so much as twitched a muscle, and then left to open Kali's pen. Deucalion moved forward, glancing up to where Az was slithering along the ceiling. Sometimes, Stiles wondered if the blind wolf wasn't as blind as he let on.

            "Hang on," Isaac said. He moved up to the screen and played with the switches until the screen flickered to a new view. "That was camera 2, this is camera 3. Now watch.... there."

            The intruder practically fell over himself as Kali ripped open her front door and ran at the front of her pen in full alpha form. She clawed at the guy through the bars, and then looked at the open doorway. As she moved for it, the guy held up both hands in a surrender gesture and began heading for the big barn door. It was clear he intended to release all the fighters out into the world.

            "What is he thinking?" Stiles asked, mystified. "This person knew enough to get into the system to unlock all the pens but... the outer doors won't open if there's an unlocked pen door. There's no override for that, it's a safety feature."

            "That's where the unfortunately bit comes in," Isaac said.

            They watched as Deucalion slipped out of his pen just enough to point to the ceiling. The intruder, now pressed up against the barn door he must have realized he couldn't open, looked up. Something dripped onto his face, and his mouth opened in a scream none of them could hear. A moment later, Az dropped down from off-camera and began to shred into the soft human.

            Isaac clicked off the footage, and leaned his hip against the table the screen sat on. Stiles scrubbed a hand over his hair. There was no way they could turn these over to the police, not when it clearly showed Deucalion and the guy talking to one another. Not when Az had been out of his pen for the kill.

            "How'd you get in?" Stiles asked, instead of the million other things he wanted to say.

           "I thought we'd have to use the gas, but the system reset when all the pen doors closed and locked again," Isaac said. "By the time Boyd, Cora, and I got there, the main door opened just fine."

            "That couldn't have been minutes after..." Stiles trailed off, motioning to the security footage they'd just watched.

            "Rest of the tape? Az and Duke were the only two who left their pens," Isaac said. "Duke walks over to Az, says something to him, and led him back to his pen. Then he walked around and closed all the rest of the doors."

            "Why?" Stiles asked, looking over at Derek. "Why would he do that?"

            "Because he's vicious, not stupid. He knows what happens if they catch him as an escapee," Derek said. "Or if they take him away from you. He says there's nowhere as nice as your stables."

            Stiles let that sink in for a minute. "How did he... get Az to cooperate?"

            Derek looked over, confused. "He asked."

            "He asked... the chimera," Stiles repeated, wondering if it sounded as crazy to everyone else in the room as it did to him. Isaac was at least looking confused as well, staring just as intensely at Derek. "He can speak with animals?"

            Light dawned in Derek's eyes. "You don't... know," he said slowly. "They never told you that alphas can speak to the greater supers?"

            "Woah, hang on, what?" Stiles asked. " _Greater_ supers?"

            Derek's head tipped a little, as if he had never considered that Stiles might not know the phrasing. "Dragons, gryphons, unicorns, chimera..." he began, then sat up a little bit straighter. "The... the greater... You don't...? Duke never...?"

            "Deucalion's never been exactly _forthcoming_ with information," Stiles said carefully. "Are you telling me non-humanoid supers can speak?"

            "I thought you knew," Derek said quickly. "I thought one of the others would have told you, or I'd have said something. I only found out when..."

            "Get up," Stiles ordered, struggling up to his feet. His stomach had dropped down to his knees. All this time they had been assuming that non-humanoids were just beasts, incapable of returning communication.

            "Stiles, I'm sorry, I-" Derek began as he scrambled to his feet as well.

            "I'm not mad at you," Stiles told him firmly. "But I need you to come with me."

            He didn't wait for a response, just exited the training room and headed for the stairs. Even though he had to keep one hand on the banister, he managed to make it down them alone. Derek followed a step behind him, obviously anxious until they came to a stop in front of Negira's pen.

            "Oh," Derek said softly. He looked into the large pen, to where Negira was uncoiling from her perch on one of the ledges. She melted down, and a moment later she was there to press her snout into Stiles' waiting hands.

            Stiles looked over to Derek, throat tight. "You're telling me that you can talk to her."

            "So can you," Derek told him softly. "She understands everything you say."

            He pressed his forehead to the bars. "I didn't know," he murmured to her. "I'm sorry, I never knew, and I didn't ask. I should have asked."

            Beside him, Derek smiled. "She says you should have, but they wouldn't have told you. I think I'm in trouble for telling you."

            "Is there anything she wants?" Stiles asked, desperation chasing away the sinking feeling of having done wrong. "Is there anything I can do better for you, Negira?"

            Derek looked through the fencing at Negira, as if listening, though Stiles could hear nothing. "He's not-" Derek rolled his eyes and shut his mouth as Negira turned to stare at him. "There's some kind of wild deer that she wants to try called an _elk_. Some little hookfang told her they were the best meat he'd ever had."

            Stiles couldn't help the rough laugh that scraped out of his throat. If a special treat was all that she wanted, maybe he hadn't been doing so badly by her after all. "I can do that, baby," he said, reaching out his hand to stroke her nose again. "Once we've got the fire problems sorted out, I'll buy a whole truck full of them and you can catch them yourself if you want."

            "She's fine," Derek reassured Stiles, laying a hand on his forearm. "She says she's fine. You've done well, and it's okay. It's okay, Stiles."

            "Thank you," Stiles said, trying to relax and only succeeding in beginning to cry.

            Everything had just been so stressful for the past few days, and he had been holding it together but he had almost _died_. Other people he cared about had almost died in the same fire that ruined his house, Erica was still in the hospital after a seizure for the first time in over a year, and the supers in his care were under investigation after someone had been killed on his property. He was going to have to send Derek and Negira back into the pit knowing the ARC had it out for all of them. The word _helpless_ didn't _begin_ to cover how he felt.

            Hearing the words _it's okay_ slip out of Derek's mouth as if it were the truth just _snapped_ whatever thin filament had been holding Stiles together.

            Derek caught his arms as his knees gave out, stabilizing him as they sank to the ground together. Without a word, Derek pulled him into his lap, curling protectively around him for all the long moments it took to allow himself to finally break. The sound of Derek murmuring reassurances was the last thing Stiles heard before giving into the pressing exhaustion.

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [Elin](http://firecracker452.tumblr.com) and [Broodingsoul](http://broodingsoul.tumblr.com) and [ClearlyBlue](http://Clearlyblue.tumblr.com) for the beta reading on this chapter!

 

* * *

_Due to the calendar restrictions of Division 1 games_

_Division 1-specific arenas shall be allowed to host Division 2 games_

* * *

 

            It was over a week before the trembling in Stiles' muscles dissipated. Derek stayed at his side almost the entire time, save when Stiles had to speak to insurance agents about repairing the manor. The blood burn wounds Derek had suffered were almost completely gone by the time the final reports were made and the first of the contractors arrived.

            The walk-through of his house to assess the fire damage was actually reassuring, to some degree. Workers had begun to gut the damaged section of the house and they quickly found that the wing of the manor that contained sleeping quarters had gotten the worst of it. The head of the crew that had come to rebuild had assured him that it would only be a couple of weeks before everything was in top shape again.

            After a long discussion with Isaac, Boyd, and Erica, they had decided to destroy the footage of Az killing the intruding arsonist. Isaac had purged the files from the computer system and disposed of the hard copy he'd made just in case. The official record said that the arsonist must have tampered with the security recording system as well.

            The day after Stiles arrived home from the hospital, his father turned up on their doorstep without warning. Someone - and Stiles suspected it was Erica, despite her own predicament - had told him about the fire. John had taken up one of the small conference rooms in an unburned hallway, just like Stiles and the others, and made himself useful dealing with the legal side of things.

            In the process of filling out reports about the accidental death, Boyd had taken it upon himself to file paperwork requesting a hold on putting any of Stiles' fighters into the arena. Due to the fire and Stiles' own personal health problems, the application had been granted, which gave Stiles room to breathe again.

            With everything falling into place, Stiles began to feel a lot more stable. He still had moments of panic, moments where the world closed in around him and he felt like nothing was going to be all right. Those were the moments when Derek moved closer and told him that he could do this, offering a comforting, familiar presence until the feeling passed.

            Regardless of how stable or unstable he was feeling, the world had continued marching onward, which was why he was currently walking down an empty, dark hallway as quietly as he could. The building had technically closed half an hour ago, and the two security officers were making rounds that Stiles had been very careful to dodge in order to get here. He had even taken refuge in a small conference room until the patrollers left for the front entrance.

            He trailed to a stop outside the only open room in the hallway: room 218. It was a large office with a fancy, metal plate on the door. Yellow light spilled into the hall from within, and he could hear the soft sound of music threading through the still air. The woman behind the desk did not immediately look up when he stepped into view. She simply continued scratching her pen over the documents she was detailing.

            He cleared his throat, but she didn't startle. In fact, she gave no indication that she was surprised to see him at all. "Mr. Stilinski," she greeted, signing her name along the bottom of the sheet and finally looking up at him. "You know, the building _is_ closed."

            "Did they start it?" he asked evenly. Her eyes dipped away from him for just a second, and he knew. "There was a fire at my estate. Someone tried to poison me. Was it the ARC?"

            "I don't know," she said softly, guilt written into every line of her body.

            "If they were responsible, would you tell me?" he asked. "Jennifer," he prompted when she wouldn't meet his eyes. He didn't want this to be formal; he wanted to speak to her as a person, not as a warden to a committee member.

            "You know I couldn't," she told him. "I'd lose my job."

            "You're going to lose your job, anyway," Stiles said. "There's a movement starting."

            "You'll lose your job, too," she reminded him, folding her hands atop her desk. "I know why you're doing this, Stiles. I know what he means to you."

            Stiles nodded. Of course she did. Kali, without ever having seen her, had warned him that Ms. Blake knew about him and Derek. "Are you going to tell?"

            "No," she told him. "You kept my secret, once upon a time. I'll keep yours. But I won't offer you any help beyond that. If you want to start some kind of _movement_ , you're on your own."

            "They deserve freedom," Stiles said, knowing she felt the same.

            "And once they have it?" Jennifer asked, tipping her head a little, looking almost sympathetic. "What do you think your wolf will do when you take the collar off? Do you really think he'll stay? No matter how you feel about him, he doesn't love you. They can't love humans."

            Stiles swallowed, trying not to let the comment hit exactly where she was aiming. He knew it was a possibility, that Derek would leave the moment he was free to do so. Ever since Derek had first agreed to come home with him, Stiles had told himself that Derek wouldn't stay. That he could die in the pit or that even if he made it out, he would leave for the sanctuary. Now that even the sanctuary wasn't going to be enough, Stiles knew that Derek might still leave if they managed to win freedom for him. Even Derek had never implied there would be any other ending.

            "You're wrong," Stiles said. "Whether or not he stays, you're wrong."

            "We'll see," she said. Then she turned her attention back to her paperwork and began to fill in information on a fresh page. "If that's all you wanted, you should get heading home now, Mr. Stilinski. Before Jasper comes back to check on me."

            "I will," he told her, backing up a step so that he was in the doorway. He hesitated and she glanced up at him. "She told me... to say hello. Kali."

            He didn't miss the slight flinch that twitched at Jennifer's eyes, and then she frowned. "Good night, Warden."

            With a nod, Stiles backed into the darkness of the hallway. He watched just long enough to see her run a palm over her hair before he turned to go. Since the building was technically closed, he wasn't entirely sure he was going to get out unaided, but if it came down to it, he could always tell the security officers he had gotten lost, and then all the lights had shut off. Escorting him _out_ of the building would be an easy sell.

            He had just reached the end of the hallway when he heard the scrape a chair behind him, and then Jennifer's footsteps clacking out onto the tile. "Stiles!"

            Turning, he saw Jennifer's silhouette in the doorway of her office.

            "I want to help your movement," she called, just loud enough to cross the short distance. "But you know I can't. I can't have any more blood on my hands."

            "It's too late, Ms. Blake," he called back. "With us or not, there'll be more blood on your hands. But that doesn't have to be true forever."

            "You're right," she replied.

            "I know," he said, pressing back against the security door, ready to go. Somewhere, an alarm was probably sounding.

            "No, I mean, you're _right_ ," she repeated. "About the fire. Please... just- keep her safe, okay?"

            He nodded and slipped through, letting the door swing closed, and then hurried for the emergency exit. Halfway down, one of the security guards stopped him. Stiles immediately acted flustered, chattering about how he was looking for a way out and, just as he'd assumed, the guard walked him to the front door. Stiles thanked her profusely before heading for his Jeep.

            As soon as he was behind the wheel, he pulled out his phone and started swiping through his contacts. Two rings was all it took before a familiar voice answered.

            "So how much do I need to post for bail?" Danny asked without precursor.

            "I'm coming over to your office," Stiles said, ignoring the obvious disapproval of his visit to headquarters. He hadn't been in real danger- he'd known before going in that Jennifer wouldn't turn him over to security for staying past closing to see her privately.

            "I feel obligated to point out it's 10:30 at night," Danny said. "And as such, I'm not at my office."

            "That's why I'm calling to tell you," Stiles said cheerfully as he started the engine. "So you can meet me there."

            "I'm going to go ahead and say no," Danny told him. "But I can be there at the bright and early hour of eight tomorrow morning."

            Stiles rolled his eyes. "Fine," he said. "Then I want you to call Lydia and bring Matt with you. I'm going to call Scott and see if we can vid him in for a meeting."

            "That bad?" Danny asked, sounding a lot more somber.

            "Probably worse," Stiles assured him. "We're gonna have a lot of work to do. I gotta go. See you at eight."

            He tossed his phone gently onto the passenger seat and pulled out of his parking spot. The drive home was long, but the roads were empty, giving Stiles plenty of time to get his thoughts together.

            Stiles and the others had been moving in secret about all of this for so long, trying to fly under the radar of the ARC so that it appeared as though their only goal was fulfilling the contract. They'd thought it would keep them safe.

            Now, there was no way they could safely stay quiet, not when the ARC was willing to take such drastic measures to interfere. Going to the press was going to have to be the first step. If nothing else, Stiles knew he was going to have to spread the news about the fire immediately, as far as their influence could reach. The more people watching their every move, the better.

            Maybe, he thought, it had been a mistake to confine their efforts to the arena world. For years, Scott's group had done their lobbying publicly, but it was without the aid of those actively involved in the arena. There were a few ex-wardens or handlers in their ranks, but it wasn't enough. In the past few months at fights, Stiles had picked up on more and more unrest. More wardens tired of seeing their charges die. More spectators sad to lose their favorites, or to watch beautiful creatures be destroyed for no good reason. It wouldn't be hard to cross the public and arena wires, and the resulting spark might be enough to cause the ARC to back off for a while.

            At least, it might make it a lot harder for the ARC to try to kill them all again.

            He flicked off his headlights just before turning into the drive so that he wouldn't wake anyone inside. Down the newly-inhabited wing, he saw one room with a light on. A quick window-count told him that his father either had fallen asleep with the light on again, or was still awake and awaiting his return.

            As such, it was no surprise when he closed the garage and heard the door to the house open. "You're home late," his father said, leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed.

            "Yeah," Stiles said. Seeing disapproval in his father's eyes always made him feel like he was ten years old, getting caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He'd never gotten any better at getting away with lying when it came to his dad.

            "Isaac told me you went to the ARC headquarters," his dad said, moving aside to allow him to enter the house. They had caught his father up to speed on what was going on the day he arrived, and though he didn't think it was a safe idea, he hadn't stood in their way over any of it.

            "I wanted to talk to Jennifer Blake," Stiles admitted, closing and locking the door behind them. He punched in the security code, knowing it wouldn't really do much good if someone decided they wanted in; despite the work being done, the burned out section of the house still had large gaping wounds. "I needed to know."

            "Needed to know?" his father prompted, touching his arm to slow him down. "Is this about the fire? From what your friends told me, it seems pretty clear someone's out to get you. There's no need to put yourself in danger by walking right into the manticore's den."

            Stiles pursed his lips and gave a little shake of his head. "I just needed to see for myself," Stiles said quietly. "And I thought that maybe if they knew we were on to them, that it could buy us a little time. They might hesitate to make a move if they don't know how much evidence we have."

            "Or they'll move faster," his father said hotly. "Stiles, what were you thinking? The ARC isn't some schoolyard bully you can spook. They'd have no problem redboxing you. I don't want to see that happen just because-"

            "Then close your eyes!" The words burst out of Stiles unbidden, but he didn't take them back. "If you can't handle it, then just close your eyes like everyone else. But _they_ can't do that. The fighters can't just close their eyes and make it go away. That's why I can't, either. That's why _we_ have to fight for _them_ this time."

            "Stiles, I..." his dad began, clearly not sure what to say in light of the outburst.

            "I appreciate that you came out to see me." Stiles kept his voice steady, even though it felt like his heart was going to pound out of his chest. "But unless you're going to help-"

            "I'll help," John said quickly. When Stiles looked up, he forced a smile. "I want to help, I just... I don't want to lose you, too. I'm not saying to stop, but I want you to be careful. Don't run off alone anymore."

            Stiles relaxed a little, feeling dizzy. "Okay," he said.

            His father reached out, putting his hands on Stiles' shoulders until Stiles looked him in the eyes. "You're gonna get through this, kiddo," he said solemnly. "And I'm going to do everything I can to help. Including sending you to bed."

            "I'm not _five_ anymore, _Dad_ ," Stiles said, though he couldn't help the smile that twitched at the corners of his lips.

            "I know," his father said, pulling him into a hug.

            Stiles wrapped his arms around his dad and buried his nose in his broad shoulder. "I have a meeting tomorrow morning at 8," Stiles mumbled into his dad's jacket. "You wanna go?"

            "Wouldn't miss it for the world," his dad said, before ushering him off in the direction of their temporary bedrooms.

 

* * *

  _Division 1 arenas must be constructed_

_with the ability to house at least_

_two pairs of game pieces_

* * *

 

            Stiles sat with his chair scooted back from the table so that he could lay his head on the pillow of his folded arms. From this slanted vantage point, he had a perfect view of Danny and Lydia, who were deep in discussion about match schedules. Matt was seated on the other side of Danny, his feet propped on the table and a magazine open in his lap. To Stiles' other side sat his father, who looked to be plotting Matt's demise if he snapped his gum obnoxiously just one more time.

            Involved in a game of cards at the opposite end of the table were Isaac, Erica, and Boyd. They had assured him that Deaton would be in as soon as he got out of a meeting of his own. That was twenty minutes ago and Stiles was just beginning to think they should start without him when the door opened.

            "Traffic," Deaton explained as everyone in the conference room turned to look at him. He shut the door behind him and took the closest empty seat, next to Stiles' father.

            Stiles pulled himself together and lifted his head, fighting off the urge to give in to his lack of sleep. "It's fine." He reached forward and pressed the alert button on the conference call.

            A moment later, Scott's face appeared in the video screen. "Hey, we're still here," he said in a rush as the camera began to jostle enough to make Stiles feel slightly ill. "I hope you don't mind, Mr. Yukimura brought his daughter, Kira. She does a lot of their publicity stuff."

            "It's fine," Stiles said, wondering how many times he would have to repeat that phrase today. "Allison's there too?"

            "Yeah," Scott confirmed, and the camera swung over to offer a view of her. She waved cheerfully at Stiles. He hated morning people.

            He scrubbed his hands over his face to try to wake himself up, and then checked his empty coffee mug. He sighed. "Well, we should get started then. Thanks to everyone for coming so early on such short notice. As I think everyone knows, there was recently a fire at my estate. It was set on purpose, and I have reasons to believe that it was some portion of the ARC that hired the arsonist. Unfortunately, we are unable to question said arsonist at this time, as my chimera, Az, melted and consumed most of him."

            "Gross," Allison said. Stiles made a face at her, and she made one back.

            "Anyway, in light of this apparent pattern - with Talia and the Hale facility having been burned as well - I think it's safe to say that the ARC isn't keen on letting us get away with fulfilling our contract with them."

            "It doesn't sound like they want to let you get out of it alive," said Mr. Yukimura. "You or Derek."

            "I believe that may be the case," Stiles agreed. "And unfortunately, no matter how much money or influence I may have alone, the ARC has more. And they aren't just using that power to come after me or Derek. Recently it's come to light that they may be purposefully and methodically causing the extinction of supernatural species."

            "I don't think it's a matter of _may_ ," Allison said. "Those documents you sent us... I don't know where you got them, but it's pretty damning evidence against them. If you took them to court over it, you'd probably win."

            "I don't want to nail them on something small," Stiles said. "I want to stop them. I want to stop the whole thing. Shut down the ARC, shut down the arenas, get all of the people they've been killing set free."

            A heavy silence fell over both groups, and then Danny cleared his throat and sat up a little straighter. "Stiles... what you're talking about... don't you think that's a little... big? You're talking about tearing apart a major element of our society, a part that contains a _lot_ of jobs, a _lot_ of livelihoods."

            "I'm talking about ending a genocide that has lasted unchecked for hundreds of years," Stiles said firmly. "If no one stands up, if _we_ don't stand up to stop it, then the only way it ends is when every last person of supernatural origin is dead. Including Derek, and Ethan, and Scott's children."

            "And me," said Kira, the young lady on the other side of the conference call. All eyes turned to the vid screen, and she blushed faintly. Her father spoke her name softly, and she said: "They should know." She looked to Scott and Allison, and then to the video screen. "The reason my father started this campaign almost twenty years ago now is because my mother was a kitsune. When I was very little, she was caught using her power to protect me, and the ARC had her taken away."

            Her father cleared his throat. "I attempted to register as her warden but due to what they deemed 'unwitting unlawful relations,' they refused my registration. Noshiko was put into a Division 1 fight after only a month. It was her only fight. They put our family under investigation after that, but Kira was too young for her powers to manifest."

            "I came into my powers a few years ago," Kira added. "So far I've managed to keep them hidden, but it can't last forever. I agree with Stiles. We should worry about lives instead of jobs."

            "Of course," Matt said. "But you understand that to do that, we are going to have to make this... well, big. A lot of people are willing to help a cause like this... as long as it has no ill-effects on their comfort."

            Kira made a face, as though this information was old news to her. Stiles cleared his throat for attention. "We'll work with that in mind, then," he said as soon as everyone was looking at him. "We'll just have to find ways to make it personal."

            "We could host meet-and-greets," Lydia suggested. Attention shifted to her, and she shrugged in Stiles' direction. "You run a lock-in every summer where people get to meet your fighters up close and personal. Why not take that into the community? Show communities that supers aren't monsters."

            James and his change of heart flickered through Stiles' memory. "That could work, but I can only be so many places at once."

            "You can authorize handlers," Mr. Yukimura said. "Surely we could find someone to take your people out into other communities."

            "I could go, too," Matt said. "And I know other wardens that would be willing to take their fighters out into the public if we talked to them."

            "We could talk to other handlers," Erica added. "All you'd have to do is sign off on them to take your stable out, Stiles."

            "Great," Stiles said as everyone began to take notes. "Let's get that organized then, as soon as possible. Deaton, can we get a clean bill of health for all of them?"

            "Of course," Deaton confirmed. "I'll bring the paperwork over tomorrow morning."

            Stiles' father cleared his throat and waved his hand. "What you're suggesting isn't exactly _legal_ , you know?" he said.

            "Technically that's not true," Scott piped up from the vid screen. "If we take them out onto public grounds it would be legal. So, all we need is to find an establishment, recreation area, or private residence that would be willing to host us. Along with having the appropriate number of handlers per regulations for any particular species, we're within the law to move and display arena fighters outside of arenas. It's how they get away with doing interviews and shows when there's a convention."

            "Parks, auditoriums, gymnasiums," Allison listed. "Banquet halls, town halls... it's a long list. We can start checking for the legal stuff, if you guys can handle finding the teams that are willing to go out and interact."

            "You got it," Matt said, glancing to Erica, who nodded agreement.

            Stiles looked around at everyone noting their responsibilities. "Kira, Scott said you take care of public relations. It's nice to go into communities, but what can we do about getting news coverage for them?"

            "I can look into it," she said happily. "My friend, Des, would love a chance to come follow you around for a while and report on all this."

            "Des?" Stiles echoed dubiously.

            "Desdemona Greenberg," Kira said quickly. "She's still pretty young, just getting started in the news world, but she's good, I swear. She's helped us a lot since I started working with her a year ago."

            "Okay," Stiles agreed. "Then... it sounds like we have the start of a plan. Outside of the public eye, I want to start gathering support." He pulled Morrell's card from his jacket pocket, and placed it on the table in front of him. "At the lock-in this summer, one of the women chaperoning approached me about helping us if we needed. I can't prove that she was the one that sent us all that information about the breeding facilities, but I know it was her. I think she'd be willing to help us if we know exactly what we need from her."

            "I think that goes for a lot of people," Boyd said carefully. "I think a lot of people want to help but they don't have directions, and they won't stand up as long as they think they're alone."

            "Then let's make sure they know they aren't alone," John suggested. All eyes turned to him curiously. "Well, you all said there are handlers and wardens willing to help with the meet and greets. If your lady is willing to help out from the breeding facilities, she may not be alone, either. There are probably vets like Dr. Deaton who would be more than happy to see an end to the violence. All it would take to unite them is to tell them the others exist."

            "How do we do that?" Stiles asked, mind buzzing with all the evidence he'd personally seen that they were not alone.

            "Well, if you're going to be broadcasting your visitation events like she suggested," John said, motioning to Kira. "Put together a special. Grab a few people from every walk of arena life, including supers, and have them talk. Cut in the best of your visitation moments."

            "That's... actually a really good idea," Lydia said, looking impressed. "You have a warden talking about dragons being gentle and cut to Negira cuddling some kids. Get a vet talking with a fighter about the injuries they've sustained and cut to a permanently injured fighter with a group."

            Next to Stiles, Danny shifted and made a little, thoughtful noise. "If we could keep it to less than an hour, I could probably get it onto all the broadcast channels."

            Stiles' brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

            "I know some people," Danny said dismissively. Stiles was pretty sure that for culpability's sake, he didn't want to know what people Danny knew. "Look, I'm saying I can get it on the air, if you can get it made."

            Since Stiles had trusted Danny with much more on much less than that level of assurance, he just nodded. "Okay. Then we'll work on getting people together. Solstice is in a little over a month. If I plan an event, we can probably do the recording during it without it seeming unusual to have that many people flying in to visit."

            "Are you going to tell Derek?" Isaac asked, finally speaking up.

            "Yes," Stiles said immediately. "He says that the other fighters are ready for a revolution. They're looking to him for direction, so he'll have to be involved in this. They all will. That whole side of things isn't the side that concerns me. When we're ready to make a move, they'll follow."

            "Then I suggest we get started on all of this," Lydia said, getting to her feet. She leaned over to be seen in the video feed. "Allison, call me when you get home."

            "Sure," Allison said, waving to her best friend.

            "Scott, stick around a minute," Stiles said as everyone began to push their chairs away from the table and rise. Erica moved to talk to Matt, and Deaton pulled Isaac and Boyd out the door with him to get started on the health information. Stiles watched the vid screen as the smaller meeting dissolved, until it was just he and Scott alone.

            "What's up?" Scott asked, plopping down into the chair closest to the vid screen.

            "Okay, promise you won't get mad at me," Stiles said. Scott gave him a look that said he might already be mad for that suggestion. "I mean it, Scott."

            "Okay, alright. I won't get mad," Scott promised. "What's wrong?"

            "I was thinking that maybe, like... you know, your dad's in the federal-" Stiles began.

            "I'm not asking him for help," Scott said coldly. "We don't need him on this."

            "Dude, you know I hate him as much as you do," Stiles argued. "But if we're gonna do this, we're gonna need his department on our side. They're responsible for all the actual laws regarding arenas and supers, not just the regulations. Plus, he's been _dying_ to make it up to you since... you know."

            "Since his drunken disorderliness got me turned into a werewolf and ruined my life?" Scott suggested helpfully. "I'm kind of planning on letting him rot for the rest of his life about that."

            "Scott..." Stiles said softly.

            Scott's face scrunched up in distaste, and then he sighed, posture slumping. He refused to look at the vid screen. "Whatever," he said, resigned. "I'll call him."

            "Don't forgive him," Stiles said. "You don't have to forgive him. Just... see if he'll help, when it comes down to it."

            "Yeah, yeah," Scott said. Finally, he looked back to the screen. "Do you really think this will work? Meet-and-greets and video recordings and broadcasts? Seems like a long shot, if you ask me."

            "It's just a start," Stiles said. "Gotta start somewhere, isn't that what your mom used to tell us?"

            Scott smiled. "Yeah. She still tells me that when I get ahead of myself."

            "Give her a call, too," Stiles suggested. "And tell her I say hi."

            "You tell her," Scott said, scoffing. "You're practically her kid, too."

            Stiles smiled as well. "Yeah I am," he said. "And I'm the cute one."

            "You wish," Scott said, rolling his eyes. "You'd better go. We both have a lot of stuff to get done."

            "Yeah," Stiles said, not wanting to turn of the screen. He desperately missed having his best friend close enough to see any time he wanted, even if it was two-in-the-morning shenanigans in the forest. Real life responsibilities sucked sometimes. "I'll be in touch."

           "You better," Scott said, giving him a little wave. The vid screen went dark and Stiles sat back in his chair with a sigh.

            It was going to be a long day.

  

* * *

  _Under no circumstances shall a game piece_

_enter an Arena veterinary clinic without the_

_appropriate number of attending handlers_

* * *

 

            Sunlight streamed down onto Stiles' face, warming his skin as he lay spread-eagle on the soft, green grass. December had begun but the chill hadn't set into the air here like it had in the north. There wasn't even a breeze to wick away the warmth, or clouds to block the sun. He couldn't have asked for a better day.

            A few yards away, Negira was stretched out as well, her long wings laid out to their fullest extent to soak up any extra heat. Her wingspan touched just over forty feet, which was larger than average, and in the natural light he could see the blue, pearly iridescence on the skin of her wings. In contrast, the areas where he had applied skin dye to her scars were a flat, ugly black. Every time he noticed them, a twinge of guilt shot through him.

            He should have been doing this years ago.

            He should never have put her in the arena.

            He should never have risked her life.

            He rolled onto his side and Negira's outer eyelids slid open so that she could see him through her clear, nictating membranes. He stretched out a hand to her, flopping onto his belly, and she wriggled a little until the very tip of her snout brushed his fingertips. She gave a gentle huff, the warm air puffing over his hand, and he smiled.

            "Glad we got here early," he murmured. She mimicked the sounds, and then her long, forked tongue flicked out over his fingers.

            He laughed, and rocked up onto his hands and knees so that he could crawl over to her side. She lifted one of her wings enough that he could get under it. When he was close enough, she also lifted her arm, and he flopped down on his belly beside her. She lay her arm over him and tented her wing to create shade and protection.

            Sometimes he forgot how _small_ Negira really was. While it was true that Southern Ridgebacks were the second largest of the arena-approved dragon species, half of her twenty-five feet was in her tail. Lying like he was beside her, he realized once again that she would be barely big enough to sit astride.

            A low, peaceful sound rumbled against his side as Negira began to thrum happily.

            What felt like only a moment later, Stiles opened his eyes at the creaky, high noise Negira was making to alert him. She lifted her arm so that he could wriggle out from beneath her, peeking over her wing to see what was happening. A young man was standing a dozen yards away, a clipboard clutched in his hands.

            "Oh, thank goodness," the guy said, looking relieved. "You're alive."

            "Yeah, sorry," Stiles said, scrubbing at his face. He hadn't meant to fall asleep. "I must have dozed off. Is it time?"

            "Yes, sir," the guy said. "My name is Robbin. We spoke on the phone?"

            "Oh right, right," Stiles said, clambering to his feet and holding up his hand to Negira to ask her to stay put. "You're the event coordinator." He looked the guy up and down, thinking he couldn't possibly be a day over 20.

            "Yes," Robbin said, looking relieved. "We're really quite pleased to have you two here today. We've been watching the other events all week."

            Stiles smiled. He had been to several meet-and-greet events around the country in the last week, and all of them had gone amazingly well. Negira played the perfect pushover, winning the hearts of children and adults alike. Miss Greenberg, the young reporter Kira had recommended, had met him at one of the events with video copies of the others she had been reporting on and a list of the times they would be televised.

            Even though he hadn't seen Derek in person since he'd embarked on the tour, watching him interact with kids on screen felt so worth it. He was every bit as much of a star as Negira, racing kids in his alpha form and talking peacefully with adults as a beta. Greenberg had interviewed him with Boyd, who was his accompanying handler. It had gone smoothly. Stiles was proud enough to burst.

            The other story that was broadcast was with a warden Stiles didn't know, someone that Matt had brought into the game. She had a massive centaur who was saddled and giving rides to all comers, while the warden talked about how she had come across her charge and how difficult it was to send him into dangerous situations.

            Later in the story, Greenberg's camera staff had gotten footage of the centaur and his warden at the event following their own. He was lying down at one of the long tables full of craft material, making a construction-paper get-well card with a small horde of children that were going to be distributing them to a nearby hospital. It was almost the highlight of Stiles' week when Greenberg caught the leader of the second event asking the centaur if he would like to come with them to the delivery.

            The hospital hadn't allowed them entry with him, but it had been a step in the right direction, Stiles thought.

            "They've been a lot of fun to see," Stiles agreed warmly, giving Robbin a smile. "Will there be anyone with cameras today? There's one in my Jeep if not."

            "Oh, I think everyone will have their cameras today," Robbin said, glancing behind him to the park's main building. The first of the visitor cars were parking, and Stiles could see children trying to tug their parents toward the lounging dragon. "They'll walk the first group out here in a little bit. Like we discussed, they're mostly going to stick to the pavilion area, and Nightshade can-"

            "Negira," Stiles corrected automatically. He was done giving any part of her to the arena. "Nightshade was her arena name."

            "Oh, yes, of course," Robbin said quickly. "I'm sorry. _Negira_ can come and go from the activity. We didn't want her to get stressed having to interact with- with...."

            Stiles made a noise to prompt him to finish and then noticed Robbin was staring wide-eyed over at where Negira was. He turned to see just as Negira brushed past him with a happy noise. "Negira!" Stiles chided, knowing full well what she was doing.

            She just kept walking, and Robbin stammered out: "Wh-where is she going?"

            "She sees kids to play with," Stiles explained, hurrying after her. "Negira! Hey, lumpy lizardface!"

            Negira made an indignant noise and stopped to look over her shoulder at Stiles. He caught up to her and came around her front to shove gently at her thick-muscled shoulder. She didn't budge and he didn't expect her to.

            "You can't go over there yet," Stiles told her, exasperated. She crooned at him and looked back at the kids that were in an uproar of excitement in the parking lot now that she was even closer. "Yeah I know. But they have a meeting to go to before they can come play. I promise you they will not leave without saying hello."

            She huffed a sigh, and shot a glare in Robbin's direction as if blaming him. Then she turned around and walked back to where she had been lying down. She sat back on her haunches enough to bring her front paws to her chest. As her wings dropped open and spread wide, she raised herself onto her hind legs and Stiles had just enough time to tell Robbin to cover his ears before she gave a great, bellowing roar.

            The children in the parking lot erupted into shrieks of happiness.

            " _Showoff_!" Stiles shouted at Negira as she sank back to all fours and gave him a smug look. He rolled his eyes and looked apologetically to Robbin. "So... you should probably get that meeting started. She's a great big brat, but she's looking forward to seeing more people."

            Robbin chuckled nervously, but he headed for the building without another word. Stiles returned to Negira's side and swatted her on the shoulder as soon as he was close enough. She fluted at him cheerfully before flopping down to wait.

            Thankfully, they didn't have to wait long. The parking lot filled up with people, most of them trying not to look like they were openly gawking at the big, black dragon lazing about in the park. Then it emptied quickly as the group went inside for instructions. Stiles took the opportunity to lead Negira down to the river that ran a ways beyond the pavilion. They had enough time for her to take a long drink before the crowd began filtering back into the parking lot.

            "Showtime," he told Negira. She rustled her wings at him and then bounded away toward the pavilion.

            He reached it a few moments after her, just a few steps ahead of the incoming crowd. Though some of the people looked nervous, most of them seemed relaxed. He wondered if the other broadcasts were responsible, or if word of mouth had been enough. Maybe these people were naturally under the impression that supers weren't killers at heart. He could always dream.

            "Everyone!" Robbin said from the head of the pavilion. "I would like to introduce Warden Stilinski or, as we know him, Stiles! He has brought a very special friend with him today, whom you will be able to meet after he's had a chance to answer all your questions. Stiles?"

            "Thank you," Stiles said, motioning for Negira to stay before stepping onto the cement of the pavilion floor. He dipped his head slightly in greeting of the crowd; there were what looked to be over a hundred people crammed onto the benches around the tables, spilling out into the grass surrounding the roofed area. "It's great to be here! As Robbin said, you can call me Stiles. This here is Negira. She is a Southern Ridgeback dragon, one of six species of arena-permitted dragons. Just like you and me, she can understand everything we say, but unfortunately we can't understand what she says back, so I'll be answering any questions you have about her today."

            Hands shot up all over the crowd, and Stiles couldn't help but laugh. Some of the kids were practically bursting at the seams, waving their hands around to be seen. He pointed to a little girl in the middle of the pack, and she immediately shrank down, shy. Instead of calling out her question, she whispered it behind her hand to one of the adults next to her.

            "Lilah would like to know what Negira eats," the man called up to Stiles.

            "Good question, and usually one of the first," Stiles answered. "Most of her diet consists of meat, but contrary to popular belief, not all of it. In the wild, Ridgeback dragons seek out mineral deposits, such as rock salt and calcite. This is why many of them can be found living in or near caves- the stalactite and stalagmite formations often have minerals they consume. A couple of times a year, Negira also consumes a quantity of forage, which is a bunch of different plants, to help keep her healthy."

            "Like when my dog eats grass!" a little boy chimed in the front row.

            Stiles chuckled. "Kind of like that, yes."

            More hands in the air, and Stiles picked a young man standing on the sidelines. "How old is Negira? Will she get any bigger?"

            "She's currently almost 17, and she is considered full grown," Stiles answered. "Female Southern Ridgebacks get to be around 25 feet, and Negira is right around that mark. They never really _stop_ growing completely, but their growth slows down to a point where it's practically imperceptible."

            He pointed to an older woman in the back, who asked: "How long do they live?"

            "To be honest, we're not entirely sure," Stiles said. "The oldest Ridgeback we know of is a Northern Ridgeback scientists have been tracking for the last fifty or so years. She shows no signs of old age, and they aren't sure how old she was when they started. It's possible they could live for quite a lot longer than that."

            A little boy in the front row was next. "How come- How comes she doesn't just, like, fly away?"

            At that, Stiles turned and looked at Negira. She hooted at him, and then snapped her wings open as she twisted to turn away from them. In half a second she had sprung into the air, her wings thundering as they beat hard enough to get her airborne. The crowd was on its feet in an instant, everyone rushing outside to see as she took to the sky. She pulled one wing just-so and began to circle lazily overhead.

            Stiles walked out calmly, and slowly attention began to return to him. "Negira isn't my prisoner," he said loudly, now that they were out of the confines of the pavilion. "She is my friend. She is here because she chooses to be here. There are people in this world that want to see her hurt, or even want to see her killed in a horrific fight. She doesn't deserve that. She deserves this- freedom and friendship. "

            Above them, Negira loosed a deep, haunting call, one that Stiles knew could be heard for miles. Had their been other Ridgebacks in the area, they would have answered back.

            "Will she come back?" someone asked from beside him. He turned to see a young woman, her eyes fixed on the soaring dragon in awe.

            "Yes," Stiles said. "She's just enjoying showing off." He raised his voice then as Robbin ushered people out of the way and Negira began to descend. "Does anyone have other questions?"

 

* * *

  _Red-maned River Longs are_

_Colloquially called Luck Dragons_

_for their habit of bringing good luck to humans_

* * *

 

             The noise of the common room filtered into the dining area where Stiles had taken refuge, reminding him that the night was not yet over. Most of the past three days had been spent welcoming new people into his home and finding space for them to stay. With Derek, Cora, Laura, and his handlers all still loose in the countryside performing public events until next weekend, Stiles had had less help than usual.

            Thankfully, the repair work on the house had been completed while everyone was traveling for meet-and-greet events around the country, so there was more space than Stiles had originally planned. There were people staying in most of the rooms now, which meant the manor felt both more homey and more cramped than it ever had previously.

            His saving grace was that people spent a lot of their time preparing for or actually performing the job they'd come to do. Greenberg was helping organize everyone after taking over the largest of the training areas below the barn. She had set up all sorts of lighting and sound equipment for recording. She had been systematically dragging people into the new dungeon to film their parts for the coming broadcast, meaning most people were actually milling, waiting for her instead of for Stiles.

            Several people had brought supernatural creatures with them, though thankfully most of them were humanoids that Stiles had been able to assign rooms instead of pen areas. They seemed to be adjusting well to being around all of the humans, a fact for which Stiles was very grateful. He had dreaded having to convince all of them that it was okay to speak or ask questions. Apparently the other wardens had already begun that process at home.

            He couldn't say he was particularly disappointed in the non-humanoids that had been trucked in with two of the wardens, either. The first was a little raven-colored gryphon that had immediately befriended Stiles' own blue gryphon, Yoena. He had opened the door between the two pens and left them to romp and play together like kittens.

            The second was a male Ridgeback whom Negira had been stoutly snubbing since she first saw him. She hissed and threat-displayed, and he had made himself a tiny little ball of dragon in a corner of her pen for two whole days. On the third day, Stiles had caught her chasing him off of one of her perches, and she made cranky, exasperated noises at Stiles. He had told her to play nice, and they had seemed to be tolerating one another the last time Stiles had visited.

            She'd never really met one of her own kind, he reasoned. It was good for her.

            Especially since he intended to be able to set her free at some point in the future. She would have to be able to interact with her own kind.

            It _was_ good for her, he told himself.

            He just wished it didn't hurt so much to think about letting her go, too.

            A quiet knock was almost lost in the murmuring of the crowd outside the door. A second later Scott poked his head in and gave a quick glance around the empty room. "I thought I saw you disappear," he said. "You okay?"

            "Lots of people," Stiles said tiredly, motioning for him to come in and close the door.

            Scott slid into a seat next to him and stretched his arms out on the table. "It's been lots of people for, like, three weeks now." At least when it came from Scott, Stiles didn't think it sounded like sympathy, for which he was grateful. Scott knew the stress of all that they'd been trying to organize, as he'd been going through just as much on his end.

            "Yeah," Stiles said wearily. "I thought maybe I could just sit for a little bit today, since everyone else would be talking to each other instead of me."

            "I can go, if...?" Scott asked, making to get up. Stiles reached out and put his hand on Scott's arm to keep him there.

            "You're not everyone else," Stiles assured him. "I'm really glad you and Allison and the others came. Allison especially, she's been a star today."

            Scott laughed. "Did you see her with that lady from the breeding facility?"

            "Marin?" Stiles asked, chuckling at the memory. "I had to send Lydia in to break them up. I ran away. I'm glad Marin's only here for the night. Though, I'm a little more frightened of Marin's friend, Braeden." He gave an exaggerated shudder.

            "Braeden?" Scott asked, tipping his head a little. "I don't think I met her."

            "I'll introduce you," Stiles said. "But, dude, fair warning... she's _cold_. She's the head lawyer for the Arena Veterinary Board, and she is ready to take exactly nobody's bullshit. Deaton told me to keep my mouth shut as much as possible. I'm just glad she's on our side. Did you know they're siblings?"

            Scott looked confused at the sudden shift in subjects. "Deaton and Braeden?"

            "No! Uh, no, Deaton and Marin," Stiles said. "They don't even have the same last name."

            "Maybe she married?" Scott suggested. "Or he did?"

            "I haven't checked, but neither of them wear rings," Stiles told him. "But she had to have known he worked for me when we met... and she didn't bring it up. So I think something probably happened."

            "Are they all going to talk for the broadcast?" Scott asked.

            "Probably," Stiles said, suddenly feeling much more tired. He didn't want to think about the broadcast right now. He could only imagine how exhausted Greenberg must be, working practically around the clock to get everyone organized for it.

            Scott let him sit in the relative quiet and darkness of the dining room for a few more minutes before he clambered to his feet and began poking at Stiles' arm. "It's not over yet," he reminded Stiles. "I came to get you because there's someone here actually looking for you that you should probably talk to."

            "Who?" Stiles said as he got up.

            "You... should probably just see," Scott said cryptically. He winced when Stiles gave him a hard look, but he didn't elaborate. He just headed for the exit, and Stiles followed after him.

            The solstice party was in full swing when they entered the common room. Considering that Stiles had made the arrangements for it while on the road with Negira, he thought it had turned out well. The tree had gotten hauled in and decorated with all sorts of shiny baubles, the room had been set up with tables now laden with finger foods, and there was a pleasant hum of wordless music drifting through the air. Someone had started a fire in the huge fireplace, and there were kids seated in a group around a young man reading a story to them.

            It felt as though the stress of the last few days, with the new arrivals and the filming and winding down from travel, was finally dissipating. Everywhere he looked there were smiles and people interacting, sharing food and drink and stories. Some of them he knew, but there were many new faces, some of which he recognized only as people he had not yet met in person.

            Standing over by the story reading, Allison held her youngest child in her arms. Jackson was sitting up against her shins, a cookie in his hands and his eyes glued to the reader. Lydia stood beside her, leaning in to talk quietly. Danny and Matt were across the room by one of the doorways with Heather, whom Stiles was surprised to see; her RSVP had said she wouldn't be able to make it in time for the party. Stiles wondered if the two unknown people standing with her were the other arena masters she was supposed to be meeting with today.

            By one of the food tables - the table with the least healthy food, Stiles noted disapprovingly - was his father, hiding out with Scott's mother. Scott followed his line of sight, and nudged his arm.

            "Just to warn you, Kyle's around somewhere," Scott said. "He says he came out to talk to us in person about what we were going to need."

            "Did he know your mom was going to be here?" Stiles asked. Scott gave him a look which said _what do you think?_ Stiles sighed. "Right then. I'll let my dad know to watch out for him then. She won't see your dad unless she wants to. Now, who are we looking for?"

            Scott looked a little worried, throwing a glance over to where Allison was still chatting with Lydia. Stiles spotted Greenberg whisking by them, following after a man who looked like he was on the edge of exploding. Stiles recognized the face and realized it was Warden Robert Finstock.

            A good twenty years ago, when Finstock had just been starting out, he'd had a very promising trio of all-shifters that had been wild-caught. He'd moved them almost immediately to Division 1, where all-shifters typically had excellent winning streaks with their ability to take forms that had advantages over their opponents.

            Instead, two of them met their demises on their first fights, and the third fighter was left wounded so badly in her third fight that the vets were unable to save her even after her win. Finstock had disappeared for several years after that, and resurfaced to fight only in Division 3. He was here now for an interview, to talk about the losses he'd experienced.

            "We're looking for Warden Finstock?" Stiles said, tracking their movement through the crowd after Scott had motioned in their general direction. "I've already spoken to him."

            "No!" Scott said, looking exasperated. "No, look." He pointed toward one of the entrances of the common room. "Allison's dad is here."

            "What?" Stiles practically squeaked, panicking a little as he sought out the older Argent. His eyes landed on Chris, standing beside the door and looking uncomfortable as he scanned over all of the attendees. "What is a _hunter_ doing here?" he asked incredulously.

            Scott sighed like it was a mess for him as well. "He called Allison last night and said that he'd been watching the news broadcasts of everyone's public events. He told her he wants to help, and she said that he'd have to work that out with you."

            "There's exactly zero chance that man wants to help us," Stiles growled.

            "Yeah, well, he's here anyway," Scott reminded him. "And Allison seems to think he's being genuine."

            Even as Scott said it, Chris' gaze swept up to them, and Stiles knew there was no escaping now. He smiled politely as Chris moved away from the wall and began to head their way. Scott moved out in front of him and Chris stopped a couple feet short of them both.

            "Scott, Stiles," Chris greeted. "It's good to see you again."

            Stiles forced himself to extend a hand to shake, which Chris took easily. "I didn't realize you'd be in attendance," Stiles told him. "I don't generally invite hunters into my home."

            Chris nodded, accepting the barb for what it was. "Well, I'm not here to hunt," he said levelly. "I'm here to support my daughter, and I'm told that involves talking to you. Both of you."

            Stiles' eyes narrowed a little. "Why?" he asked. They all knew that Chris was one of the best hunters in the business. He ran a team of at least eight hunters that Stiles had been able to put his finger on, a team which was responsible for bringing in _hundreds_ of wild supers in the last couple decades. The first thing he was going to do tomorrow was start a records check for Chris Argent's intake. There was no way the man had quit cold-turkey. "Why do you want to help?"

            "Because I should have been helping before now," Chris said simply. "When Victoria- when my wife took her own life, I blamed the creature that had bitten her. Recently, Allison and I have been... talking and-"

            "Fighting," Scott interjected, though it sounded more like a revelation than a correction. "That's what Allison's been yelling on the phone about."

            Chris confirmed with a nod. "At the end of the day, maybe there's just one reason I want to help. I lost my wife." He shook his head, looking between them. "I'm not going to lose my daughter, too. Or my grandkids."

            Stiles weighed his options here. Of course Allison wasn't going anywhere- it was her kids that were in danger if they failed, after all. However, it didn't sound like Chris was volunteering to help them because he believed it was the right thing to do. As long as any of them had known Chris, he was obsessed with _the right thing_ , and Stiles knew that it could be a powerful motivator. If Chris decided that they were wrong, even if Allison stayed, he could turn on them.

            "I don't think that-" Stiles began.

            "I have documents," Chris cut him off. "Records from my father and sister. ARC records from when Gerard was on the council. Not everything they were doing was white-list operations. There's a paper trail and if I don't have it, I can get directions to it."

            Stunned, Stiles glanced over at Scott, who was just staring with his mouth slightly agape. Those kind of records would be invaluable if they were real, and there was no reason at all for Chris to offer them up unless he was actually committed to what they were doing. Stiles supposed maybe it didn't matter if there was a chance he would turn on them, if he gave them the papers first. He'd just go down alongside them.

            "And what do you want in return?" Stiles managed after a moment of scrabbling to collect his thoughts.

            "Put it to good use," Chris told him seriously. "Make sure you don't mess this up, because you know they will absolutely come straight for you and anyone else heavily involved in your little revolution. Including Allison, Jack, and Jo."

            Ah, Stiles thought. So that was it. Chris was trying to protect Allison after figuring out that he couldn't make her stop. Stiles was already intending to keep as many people safe as possible, so the exchange wasn't exactly a burden. "I think we can do that," he said evenly. "Where are you keeping it all?"

            "I brought it with me," Chris said, motioning for the exit. "Paper copies of the most important stuff. Everything on several hard drives."

            "Stiles!"

            Stiles turned in time to see Lydia threading through the crowd toward him, Allison at her heel with a scowl fixed upon her father. She marched straight past Scott and Stiles and grabbed her father by the arm, practically dragging him away from them. Stiles couldn't hear anything she said, but the tone wasn't exactly cordial. He guessed that Chris was supposed to have spoken to her, first.

            Lydia touched his arm, drawing his attention back to her. "Harvelle says that dinner is ready to be served, but you should probably get up and says something while it's being set out."

            "Say something?" Stiles echoed. "Like what?"

            "I don't know!" Lydia exclaimed, exasperated. "Isn't that what hosts _do_ at galas?"

            "This isn't a gala!" Stiles countered. "It's a celebration."

            For a second, Stiles was sure she was going to strangle him, but then she smoothed her expression into a smile. "Then go tell them what they are celebrating."

            Stiles groaned and looked at Scott for help, but Scott just began laughing as Lydia shoved Stiles in the direction of the huge fir tree. He sighed and let himself be herded along, grabbing a champagne flute off a small, round table along the way. Lydia made approving noises and finally hauled him to a stop at the base of the resplendently decorated tree. The people nearest to him hushed when they saw him there. A moment later, Scott arrived with one of the small mics that connected to the intercom that they'd planned to use to announce dinner.

            "Good luck," Lydia said in a hushed tone before melting back into the crowd.

            Stiles shared a look with Scott that said _yeah right_ before clearing his throat, switching on the mic, and tapping his finger against it. Scott had clipped it to his lapel so he would have his hands free. It squealed a little at the tapping, and the room's volume level dropped a few decibels before tapering off to a soft murmur.

            "Uh, good evening," Stiles began, forcing a smile as he realized he had everyone's undivided attention. He cleared his throat again. "I'm sure most of you will be happy to hear that dinner is being laid out at this very moment." His smile was more genuine as he waited for the flare of quiet cheers to dissipate. "Before that, I just wanted to say thank you to everyone. Many of you have put in a lot of effort toward our coming broadcast event and, to me, that support is invaluable. If we're going to rock the boat with this movement, we're going to need every wave to do it, and that's all of you."

            Another cheer went around, and Stiles raised the sparkling champagne flute. "So, this is for all of you tonight. You all rock!"

            Stiles watched as people raised their glasses to his toast, a gentle, cheery laughter rippling through the crowd at his wordplay. Directly in front of him Scott was grinning, his own glass raised. Beyond him, Stiles caught sight of Lydia, one hand to her head as if it hurt. He wasn't sure what she expected, shoving him up in front of a bunch of people without a plan.

            In the next instant, one of the room lights above the crowd brightened so intensely that Stiles raised a hand to shield his eyes. Sounds of surprise echoed through the gathered, and Stiles could see some of them pointing to the ceiling. As the light began to dim, he risked peeking out from under his hand.

            Suspended in midair was a small, thin dragon. It was roughly three feet in length, with a ropey, white body and a mane of crimson fur circling its blocky face and trailing down its back. It was poised in a motionless coil, staring silently at Stiles with bright, golden eyes. It's entire body was radiating a white glow, and Stiles realized it wasn't one of the lights malfunctioning. It was the dragon.

            It was the _luck dragon_.

            "Oh, shit," Scott said from beside him. "That's-"

            "Yeah," Stiles breathed, feeling as awestruck as the crowd in front of him looked.

            The creature shifted its coils, wavering slightly closer before stopping. It almost seemed as though it were waiting for something. Stiles scraped at his memory, trying to come up with anything he knew about the supposedly extinct species of dragon. As it wound its way a little closer still, it dawned on Stiles that this was technically a solstice celebration. Most of what he knew about the creatures revolved around their appearance at such events. There were rituals involved with a luck dragon's arrival.

            His voice wobbled as he spoke. "The days grow dark."

            _I bring the light_

            The voice rang clear and pure in his head, like a memory of plucked harp strings. Stiles swallowed. He'd never heard a dragon speak, and he wondered if this was what Negira would sound like if he could hear her like the alphas did.

            "Then we welcome you, friend," he called out. He felt light headed, his blood singing under his skin with all the adrenaline. "May our offerings reflect our gratitude."

            The dragon's attention shifted infinitesimally to the side, golden eyes tracking over all of the shimmering baubles covering the tree. When it looked back at him, even though he was far bigger than the creature, Stiles felt _small_. It flickered through the air like a ribbon in the wind, until it was poised within touching distance directly in front of Stiles.

            _We accept your gratitude_

            With that, it turned over its front paws and Stiles noticed the small, grey pebble grasped in its claws. Tentatively, he held out one hand, palm up, and the dragon dropped the pebble into it. The stone was pleasantly warm and Stiles felt a slight humming sensation from where it touched his skin.

            _Our blessing be with you, friend_

            It stared into his eyes a moment longer, and then swirled up to the decorated tree. Stiles looked out over the crowd. It felt as though every last person was holding their breath as the dragon's ribbon-like form drifted from one ornament to the next. Finally, it plucked a tiny, jeweled koi fish from one of the branches, and winked out of sight.

            Stiles let out the breath he was holding, and the room roared back to life with chatter. He looked at Scott, his own wide eyes mirroring Scott's expression. "Dude," Scott said.

            "Yeah," Stiles agreed breathlessly, his fingers tight with the feel of his pounding heart. He could scarcely believe what had happened, either.

            There hadn't been a sighting of a luck dragon in decades; they were supposed to be extinct. However, given what Stiles now knew about dragons, he wondered if their absence from the world of humankind wasn't because they had disappeared from the world. Perhaps they had begun to see how destructive humans were, and had hidden safely away from them. They had _survived_ until there was an opportunity for things to change.

            He didn't know how this one had found him, or how it had guessed he was trying to lead the change... he just hoped Greenberg had gotten the visit on camera.

  

* * *

  _Luck dragons have the ability to produce_

_a luminescence on their scales_

_that mimics a burst of sunlight_

* * *

 

            Sunlight beamed down on Stiles where he sat pressed up against Negira's warm belly. She was stretched out behind him, her jaw on the grass and her wings flopped out just the right way to avoid blocking his sunlight. He knew she wasn't asleep, but it was close. He had half a mind to call it a night and just spend the rest of his day snoozing in the lukewarm winter sunlight with her.

            The earlier part of his day had been spent in a chain of meetings with various people. First, there had been farewells to say to the last of his guests, his father included, which was both relieving and stressful. He was glad to have an empty house again, with no one who needed taking care of and no one underfoot, but at the same time it left him feeling exposed. An empty house meant far fewer public casualties if the ARC made a another malicious move.

            Of course, Stiles knew that he had the best protection possible: public visibility. With all of the recent educational trips he and the others had made, his face and name - and the names of the others involved - were splashed across television screens around the country. Although Stiles was sure he had become an even worse thorn in the ARC's side now, there was very little chance they would even _risk_ an attempt to remove him, much less get away with it. Too many people were watching; too many people would ask questions if something happened.

            Even if they did succeed in getting rid of him, he wasn't sure that would stop things now. The ball was already rolling.

            Greenberg had left only a few hours ago, after pulling him aside to go over everything she had gotten for the broadcast. So many people had come forward to speak, everyone from wardens to handlers to vets to administrative folks. She had even shown him the footage of the solstice festival, where she had captured part of his short speech and the entire visit from the luck dragon. The broadcast was going to air whether he was around or not. Derek and the other supers would still go through with their plans to refuse the games.

            As long as he was still around, though, he couldn't just sit here sunning himself with Negira. He was supposed to be in the barn, exposing the full plan to the alphas and asking them to help. Derek had assured him that they would do what he needed, but Stiles had his doubts. There was no love lost between them all. But, as Derek had said earlier, no matter how much Deucalion and the others might resent him, they wanted freedom more.

            "You want to come with me?" Stiles asked aloud, fingers turning over the little, grey pebble the luck dragon had given him. It was warm from being handled; he hadn't set it down since receiving it.

            Negira shifted her head, crimson eyes rolling sidelong to look at him. Now that he knew she could understand him, every look and gesture seemed far more loaded. There was a certain amount of satisfaction in knowing that he'd been right all along, even if he'd never been able to prove it. She was every bit as intelligent as he'd ever given her credit for being, and then some.

            He sighed and rolled enough to get onto his feet. The disdainful look she gave him said more than enough about what she thought of getting up, but when he started to move away from her, she hefted herself up well. As she followed him to the big front entrance, she made little, grouchy noises of complaint that he completely ignored.

            The door slid closed as soon as Negira was through it, and Stiles began to walk down the aisle. He paused at each of the humanoid pen doors and unlocked them, gently pulling them open and leaving them that way, much the same as the arsonist had done. By the time he reached Deucalion's pen, all of the alphas were out of their house fronts, giving him wary looks. Negira circled up behind him protectively.

            "I know you're not setting us free," Ennis said carefully.

            "Derek had said you might be by," Deucalion said before Stiles could answer. He moved slowly but gracefully away from the front of the house and toward the open pen door. "I must admit, I didn't expect you'd take quite such a big risk."

            Stiles pocketed the dragon pebble so that he could spread his hands, palms up, the same way he had seen supers do in the pit when they wanted to speak before a fight. Kali raised an eyebrow at the gesture, but none of them commented. "I'm not here as your warden," he said quietly, knowing they all would hear him. "I want to speak to you as one person to another."

            "We're people now?" Kali said dryly.

            "Kali," Deucalion warned. He crossed the threshold of his pen into the hallway, and everyone fell still. "If that is your desire, Stiles, then ask what you will of us and let us decide whether we will give it to you."

            Stiles took a deep breath and shoved his hand into his pocket to grasp the pebble again to fiddle with. He hadn't felt this nervous in a very long time, and it had nothing to do with how much danger he could be in at the moment. Somehow he knew that even if Negira hadn't been there guarding him, they didn't plan to hurt him. At least, not for the moment.

            "Derek told you some of what we are doing?" Stiles asked.

            A smug smile lit Deucalion's face. "Your pup is starting a war," he said. "Going to pave the path to freedom in the blood and bones of your people."

            Stiles tried not to make a face. "Something like that," he agreed. "Although we are going to try to keep the bloodshed to a minimum. Right now, we need help to spread the message as far as possible. Because Derek is in Division 1, I can only fight him every 60 days. You're all in Division 2, which means twice as many fights. I was hoping you would agree to spread his message to other pens."

            "Tell them to fight?" Kali asked. "They know that."

            "Tell them _when_ to fight," Stiles said. "We've been working out in the public lately, but in the new year, we'll be making a broadcast that should reach everywhere in the country. Maybe out of the country, too, I'm not sure yet. The point is, they need to be ready _after_ that, and they need to hold it together until then."

            "I'll do it," Kali said, raising her chin a little. "You want to start a war with your wolf, I'll run the message to our people. Gladly."

            "If she will, I will," Ennis added.

            "Why not?" Aiden said with a shrug. "It's not like we've got anything better to do here."

            "If you're in," Stiles said to the twins, "then I may have more to ask of you. I'd like to move you down to Division 4. That's twice as many fights as Division 2 in the same time span, and a different crowd from Division 3."

            "Never done it," Ethan said.

            "It's just to first blood against sub-adult non-humanoids," Stiles told him.

            The twins both gave him a somewhat disgusted look. "We know what it is," Ethan replied. "We've never done it before, but we can."

            "Good," Stiles said. "I already filed the paperwork a few days ago in case you said yes. I'm glad I don't have to cancel it."

            "It's fine," Aiden said.

            Stiles turned to look at Deucalion, whose blind stare was focused acutely in the direction of the pebble Stiles had pulled from his pocket without noticing. He stopped turning it over in his fingers and Deucalion's ears flicked forward.

            "And you?" Stiles asked. "Will you carry the message?"

            "Where did you get that that?" Deucalion asked quietly.

            For a split second, Stiles debated whether or not to tell the truth. There was something _odd_ about the way Deucalion was holding himself. He turned his hand over, holding the pebble on the flat of his palm for Deucalion, even though he knew he couldn't see it without alpha-shifting.

            "A Red-Maned River Long gave it to me at my solstice gathering," he admitted, not sure if Deucalion would recognize the colloquial human name for the dragon.

            "May I hold it?" Deucalion asked, not moving at all.

            Stiles twitched his hand slightly toward Deucalion. "Sure," he said.

            Deucalion reached out and gently scooped the pebble from Stiles' palm. He cupped it gently in both hands, bringing it close to his face and turning one ear toward it. Without changing position, he said: "Talia had one of these."

            Stiles' heart skipped a beat hard. "How do you know?"

            "I knew her," he said. "We weren't bred in a facility, like so many others. Our packs lived near one another far to the north. Hunters raided our home, stole us from our parents when we were young. We were both taken to the same breeding facility."

            There was no record of that, Stiles knew. He had all of Deucalion's paperwork. All of it, every last page, said that he'd been taken straight from the wild and brought to the Argent facility. Stiles would wonder what the point of paperwork was, if all of it could be so completely altered that no one knew the truth, but he knew the answer. If everyone was supposed to keep studious records, then the ARC and the hunters could get away with anything as long as the paperwork agreed. Until now, they _were_ getting away with it without a hitch.

            "They took me away shortly after Derek was born," Deucalion continued.

            "You aren't...?" Stiles asked, not sure he wanted to know the answer.

            "No," Deucalion said with a huff that might have been laughter. Stiles had never heard him laugh. "Derek's father remained at the facility, until the fire as far as I know. But I did-" He cleared his throat and gave himself a little shake, straightening up to look at Stiles. "I loved her. Had since we were kids. But after I was taken away, the next time I saw her was the last time. She was going through her trials, just like Derek is now. She was in a pen next to me, waiting to fight a dragon."

            As soon as he said it, Deucalion turned his attention to Negira. Stiles looked as well, but Negira paid him no mind, her attention acutely focused on Deucalion. He wondered what she was saying, what would pass between them that he couldn't hear. Deucalion might not have known it was Negira's mother that Talia had killed.

            "She died with honor," Deucalion said after a long few moments. Negira dipped her head in acknowledgement of the praise.

            "The stone," Stiles prompted, holding out his hand.

            "Talia had it with her," Deucalion said, turning his sightless eyes back to Stiles. He rolled the pebble gently back to Stiles' grasp. "She said that a small dragon had appeared and given it to her. The dragon told her that it would bring her luck, if she needed it."

            "It's just a stone," Stiles said, voice cracking a little. He'd spent so much time since the dragon's arrival just trying to figure out what it meant, what the little river pebble was supposed to _do_. He'd had it in his hands almost constantly, thinking and thinking, but there was nothing special about it.

            "It's an egg," Deucalion said, ears still flicked forward. "You've felt compelled to keep it warm, haven't you? To hold it?"

            Stiles' eyes widened. He hadn't put the stone - the egg, he corrected himself - down for more than a few minutes since the dragon had given it to him. "Why?" he breathed. "Why would it have given me an egg? I could have broken it."

            "You wouldn't," Deucalion said with a shrug. "There's magic in it. You'll protect it until it hatches. And the dragon that gave it to you will come to your aid if you can't. That's the luck of it. You protect the egg, and they protect you."

            Looking down, Stiles closed his fingers around the tiny egg. What Deucalion said was not in any of the lore. He wondered if it was because no one knew or if the people who knew had protected the secret. He supposed it didn't matter which. The knowledge was safe with him.

            "How do they know?" Stiles asked, looking up. "If I need help protecting the egg, or myself, how do they know?"

            "Because you know," Deucalion said. "Talia told me that when it appeared, she felt connected to it. Like it could hear her even if she wasn't speaking. Like she could call to it as dragons call to one another."

            Stiles was quiet for a moment, processing all of that. He wondered if he just thought about needing help if the dragon would come, or if he had to actually be in danger. Then a troubling thought occurred to him, and his brow furrowed. "Why didn't they protect her, then? The night of the fire. Why didn't they come to her?"

            "Who says they didn't?" Deucalion asked. Stiles felt uncomfortable as the wolf's sightless gaze focused on him for a split second. "That fire was set for her; the humans wouldn't have let her live even if she'd escaped. She'd have known that. But all three of her young children made it out when everyone else burned. There's luck in that, not coincidence."

            Stiles' heart sank at what Deucalion was implying. It made sense. From everything they knew of Talia, she had accepted the contract to protect her children. Finishing it would mean nothing if they didn't survive. She really had given up everything for them.

            "You want us to carry a message to start a war?" Deucalion asked, taking a step away from him. "The war's already started, Warden. Except with the help of your people, we might actually win it, and I wouldn't miss that for the world."

 

* * *

_Teleporting seems to activate the_

_luminescence of a luck dragon's scales_

_though this remains unproven_

* * *

 

            Derek sat with his back against the side of his holding pen, watching the gate to the next pen over screech open. It needed oil, badly, though he doubted the humans could hear it over the sound of their cheering and screaming. It must have been a good fight. The little wolf that had gone in fifteen minutes ago had been full of spitfire, and he was happy to see her returning now.

            She ducked into the pen before the door was fully open, and crossed to press her back against the hallway-side door. The gate began to close as soon as there was pressure on the other door. They both watched until it closed and the locks hissed shut, and then she made a loud, rough noise that startled Derek. She leaned forward to put her head by her knees and he could see her shaking even from where he sat.

            They sat in silence for a while. The arena-side gate on the pen behind hers opened, releasing its occupant to a fight. He listened to the girl's breathing calm, the beat of her heart slowing until it leveled out to a normal pace. He suspected it had been her first fight. He remembered his own first; he'd been scared witless, hadn't even put up a fight. It looked as though she'd won. She stared in his direction through her cool down, but he wasn't sure she really saw him.

            "You're him, aren't you," she asked finally. Her accent was sticky and high, but there was something familiar about it. "The wolf who fights for freedom... Derek Hale."

            "Yes," he said, picking at his thumb rather than watch her wipe blood from her lips.

            She was quiet for a moment, and then: "They say you took my mother's life. Do you think that's true?"

            He glanced up, eyes ticking over her features. There was nothing in particular about her that stood out as familiar to him- dark hair, dark eyes, dark skin. She could have been anyone's child, but he knew he couldn't be that lucky. "Do you know her name?"

            "Kitara Perth," the girl said, eyes trained on him to gauge his reaction.

            "Then yes," he answered, sick and heavy with the admission. "I killed your mother." He had promised to speak well of her to her children, should he ever find them, but he couldn't seem to force anything past the lump in his throat.

            "I don't think you did," the girl replied, finally leaning back against the far wall of her pen. Before he could open his mouth to argue, she continued. "Maybe it was your claws that struck the last blow, but you didn't put her in the pit. That was _them_. She probably didn't say that, but she always blamed the humans."

            It was all Derek could do to sit staring at the little wolf before him, barely grown into her paws, seething with a bitter rage far beyond her years. She didn't blame Derek or grieve her mother; she was angry at the system that had put them into such awful positions. All of them. He swallowed down whatever hesitation he might have had and sat up a little straighter.

            "Your mother was brave," he said softly. The girl's face crinkled, expression caught between anger and upset. "She struck a contract with me, in our oldest tongue. She gave her life in the hope that I could free you and your siblings."

            The girl gave a significant look to the caging all around them. "How's that working out for you?" she asked dryly. "I suppose this is where you tell me there's still a fight?"

            Derek opened his mouth to tell her yes, but he hesitated, her words rattling around in his skull. She didn't blame him for killing her mother, because he hadn't been the one to put her in that position. He hadn't put Kitara in the pit, hadn't put the collar around her neck or ordered her to fight to someone's death. The humans had put her - had put all of them - in a position where they were forced to spill one another's blood.

            In that moment, staring at Kitara's daughter and trying to find the words to tell her that there had to be more fighting, more blood spilled, he realized that there couldn't be.

            He couldn't ask them to continue killing.

            Since he had stood in the pit across from Kitara and accepted her contract, he'd been under the impression that she had chosen the outcome of her last fight, chosen her death. Though she had been forced into a lifetime of fighting and been commanded to kill him, it was her decision to _not fight_ that had taken him one step closer to freedom.

            Her choice had to be his choice, too.

            "No," he said hoarsely, struggling to his feet. They couldn't keep fighting like animals. If they wanted a shot at starting a new life, it couldn't be founded on bloodshed. No one else should have to be reborn in ashes.

            "No?" the girl asked, sitting forward in concern as he began to fumble with the com device in his ear. "We're _not_ fighting?"

            "We are. We just... can't." Derek let out a frustrated growl when he remembered the com wouldn't turn on unless Stiles turned it on at his end. "I have to- I need to talk to my warden."

            She gave him a dubious look. "Uh, good luck with that," she told him. "They don't exactly communicate with supers that well, if you haven't noticed."

            "Mine does," Derek said, scrabbling to get the com out of his ear. He held it up for her to see. "This lets me talk to him, but he has to turn it on up there, and he won't do that until it's time for my fight. And I'm last, and that's too late."

            For a second, she stared at the com device, and then she shook her head. "Why else would he turn it on?"

            Derek's thoughts skipped too fast for him to follow, but then it dawned on him. "If he thought something was wrong, he might turn it on to ask. But I don't-"

            "Howl," she interrupted, scrambling to her feet. "You're an alpha. Howl. The others will hear you, on the other side. _Hey!_ " She banged hard on the metal sheets between their cages, causing it to rattle and echo. The fighters down the row lifted their heads to look at the pair of wolves. "Ashborn needs our help!"

            The all-shifter and the harpy exchanged a look, and then the all-shifter stood and spread her hands in a welcoming gesture. "What do you need?"

            "Noise," Derek said. "I need to get my warden's attention. He's in the stands, so if we can make enough noise, he might hear it."

            The harpy gave a little screech and spread her wings. "Our voices are yours, Wolf. We follow you." Beside her, the all-shifter took dragon form and nodded agreement.

            Derek looked back at the little she-wolf. "What's your name?" he asked quietly.

            "Nidria," she said.

            "Nidria... thank you," he said. "Your mother would be very proud of you."

            Without waiting for a response, he tipped his head back and drew in a deep breath. Pulling upon all of the power within him, he opened his jaws and _howled_. Beside him, Nidria threw her head back and added her higher voice to his. The scream of an adult Adderback dragon and the shriek of an angry harpy nearly drowned them out. From all the way across the pit, Derek could hear the other supers joining in.

            Outside the crowd hushed, and it was only a couple of heartbeats before the com in Derek's hand crackled to life. He quickly put it back in his ear in time to hear Stiles' frantic voice.

            "-rek? Derek what's going on? What was that?"

            "I needed your attention," Derek explained. "The message we sent the others out with, they can't give it. We can't fight."

            "What?" Stiles asked, perplexed. "But- I- you- what do you mean? What happened?"

            "Nothing happened, we just _can't_ fight, Stiles," Derek repeated. "Our whole lives humans have forced us to fight each other. All that time, the humans have seen us only as brutal, violent animals and that's what we'll be painted as if we start a war. I can't- it's a lot to explain, but I'm asking you to trust me. We have a choice, and we have to choose to not fight anymore."

            Silence met his proclamation, and for a second Derek worried the com had stopped working. Then there was a soft crackle, and Stiles said: "Okay, but... I don't know how to stop it. I'm not sure I could get hold of everyone in time for-"

            The com really did cut out then, and Derek shot a worried look to Nidria as he waited, even though she couldn't have known what was said. She made a little motion which said _well?_ "Did it work?"

            "I don't know," he told her. "I wasn't the only one supposed to be carrying the message to fight. If he can't get the message to the others, then-"

            A bright flash of light interrupted him, forcing all of them to put their hands up to shield their eyes. It died down almost immediately, and Derek risked a glance at its source as his com crackled back to life. "I had an idea. Deucalion said that the egg the luck dragon gave me might be connected-"

            "Yeah, it worked. Your idea is here," Derek said, staring wide-eyed at the little white and red luck dragon that hung suspended in the air before him. Even though Stiles had told him about it, seeing the powerful little creature in person was breath-taking.

            "It's there? The luck dragon?" Stiles said. Without waiting for an answer he continued. "You'll have to ask it for what you want."

            _Our charge requests we protect you_

            "Please," Derek said softly. "I need to get a message many places at once." He knew they could get anywhere he needed. Cora had once read a book to him about how the creatures were capable of teleporting.

            _We shall carry it_

            "How will you know where to go?" Derek asked. The creature swirled a little closer and tipped its small, blocky head curiously. Its golden eyes were so bright they seemed almost to shine.

            _Because_ you _know_

            Derek swallowed nervously, wondering if the little dragon was reading _everything_ in his mind. He supposed it didn't matter as long as it got the information it needed to bear his message to all those he needed to reach. "Okay. Please tell the others that Derek Hale needs them to spread the message to stand down. Do not fight. Not each other, not the humans. Our only freedom is in peace."

            A soft, pleasant noise, like the tinkling of a hundred tiny bells, filled Derek's mind. He realized the dragon was happy.

            _We were right to trust you_

            With that, it winked out of sight, drenching the pens in darkness once more. He blinked, trying to clear the spots from his vision, and then looked around at the others. They were staring at him, waiting for something. He cleared his throat, but he couldn't think of anything to say.

            "You're asking us to stand down?" the all-shifter asked hesitantly.

            "Yes," Derek answered, turning to look at her. "Not yet. My warden, he's rallying help amongst the humans. People who will support us when the time comes. In a month and a half, the center of February. My humans will start a fight on their end, and we will stop the fighting on our end."

            "What of the ferals?" Nidria asked from behind him. He turned to look at her. "Those of us who are too far gone to reach, they won't stand down."

            "Then you let them blood you immediately, or you render them unconscious," Derek said.

            "If we don't fight, they may kill us," the harpy said.

            "If we keep fighting, we'll all kill each other, or the humans will do it for us," Derek replied. "You fight in the pit long enough, you'll die there. We need to tell everyone to put their claws away. The humans will no longer be able to force us to hurt anyone else. Can I trust you all to spread this as fast and as far as possible?"

            "You have my word," Nidria vowed, dipping her head. "There's no better way to honor my mom than to help the guy she died for, right?"

            Derek winced and nodded reluctantly. Then he glanced to the others. The all-shifter, still in the shape of an Adderback dragon, dipped her head, as did the harpy. "Thank you," he said, wishing there were words to communicate just how much this meant.

            The harpy's pit-side gate lit up, indicating that she was next, and Derek gave a glance toward it. "Derek," Nidria asked, eyes on blinking gate light. "Are we all going to keep fighting until the signal is given? Are you going to fight today?"

            "Yes," he said instantly, heart heavy with the knowledge that, while this was his last fight, it would probably not be theirs. They had to take to the sands for just a little longer. "Higher Division fights can be drawn so no one wins or loses. If a Division 1 or 2 match is drawn, both fighters survive."

            "Is that what you'll do today?" Nidria asked.

            "I'll try," he promised. He wasn't sure he could keep the promise, but he would try. If it was to be their salvation, their revolution had to start somewhere that wouldn't just end in more blood. It was time to wake the orouboros and end the cycle.

  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one chapter left! I am currently writing chapter 13, and I am putting together a short FAQ of things people have asked me about the story. If there's anything you're hoping to see wrapped up or anything you would like to know (about characters, about after the story, about the world or creatures, or whatever), leave it in a comment!
> 
> Thanks for making it this far!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, when this chapter passed 30 pages, I ended up splitting it into two... So there is another chapter after this. It's completely written and my betas (my lovely, lovely betas who did SO MUCH WORK so fast this time) have all been over it, I'm just tweaking a few things and getting the end notes ready. I'll probably post it before the end of this week, so keep an eye out!
> 
> In that vein, a HUGE THANK YOU to Elin, Redbirdblogs, and Broodingsoul for your story edits and patience in helping me get this mess of an ending turned into something worthwhile. And thanks as well to i-got-the-sass and ofdaydreamsandstars on Tumblr for giving both chapters a good once over for spelling and grammar.

 

 

 

* * *

_Northern Ridgebacks have dual-chromatic scales in_

_black/white, grey/black, grey/white, or brown/green patterns._

* * *

 

            Derek let his eyes slip closed, enjoying the feel of Stiles' long fingers carding slowly through his hair. It was pleasant, lying with his head pillowed on Stiles' lap, listening to their hearts beat in tandem. He could still feel the tremble in Stiles' muscles, their scents mixed up so strongly it was hard for Derek to distinguish them. He liked that, liked knowing that even though they had washed and dressed, Stiles would smell of him for hours, maybe days.

            It made the prospect of facing the upcoming week a little less painful.

            With a sigh, Derek cracked his eyes open and let the real world in again. They were downstairs, curled up together in the entertainment room on the biggest, softest couch. Since his last fight, just a couple of weeks ago, things had been in upheaval around the manor. This was their first quiet night alone together in days, and it was because there was nothing they could do yet. The broadcast was currently playing on their television, and on most other electronic devices around the country, which meant they could only wait to see the fallout.

            The television volume was down low enough that Derek wasn't sure Stiles could actually hear what was said. Which didn't actually matter; they'd all played a part in creating it and Derek had watched the raw footage with Stiles earlier in the week. It was good, with all types of interviews and advising experts and footage of the truth of arena life for all involved. It was also terrifying, knowing that everything hinged on the impact of such an event.

            So instead of watching, he was avoiding the stress of even thinking about the way the broadcast might change the world. He had brought down the book that Boyd had given him for his first Solstice, hoping to distract himself with it. For a while, he'd been reading stories from it aloud to Stiles, but his words had started getting sleep-slurred around the same time Stiles' breathing evened out to a dozing rhythm. When Derek had roused a short while later, he'd just continued reading silently until Stiles woke again.

            He brushed his thumb over the image on his current page. It was of a human facing off against a monstrous lion, one that had purportedly killed over 200 humans before its death. Fights between humans and beasts were ancient history; humans only rarely fought in arenas now and no natural beasts allowed in the sands. Supernatural creatures, _monsters_ as the humans knew them, were suitable for pitting against one another to the death. To do the same for creatures of the natural world was considered cruelty.

            It was his hope that after the broadcast, it would be the same for his people.

            However, he wasn't sure what exactly that would entail. He had never seen a lion in person. He had never heard them spoken of by the humans. His brow furrowed at the thought, and he shifted just enough to draw Stiles' attention.

            "You okay?" Stiles mumbled sleepily. He was close to falling asleep for real this time.

            "What happened to them?" Derek asked. He dragged his thoughts out of the sleep-sticky haze and tried again. "The lions, I mean. Romans used to fight beasts like lions as well as supers, but when they stopped... what happened to the lions?"

            Stiles was quiet for a moment and Derek didn't have to be looking at him to picture the thoughtful way his face scrunched. "I don't know for sure," he said finally. "I don't remember seeing records of them outside of the coliseums. Most of them were probably killed."

            Stiles' heartbeat sped up a little on the last word, and Derek felt his belly swoop at the idea. He swallowed the feeling, eyes locked on the fiercely snarling lion in his book. "Are they still around? Anywhere?" When Stiles didn't answer, Derek shifted so he could sit up and look at him. "Stiles?"

            "I- yeah," Stiles breathed out, not quite looking at him. "In zoos. Preservations." Stiles closed his eyes and gave a little shake of his head. "Sanctuaries."

            A tingle swept up the back of Derek's neck, raising the hairs there as he dropped his eyes to the plane ticket he'd been using as a bookmark. In a little over a week, he was supposed to use it to leave for the sanctuary. He hadn't exactly been looking forward to it, but at least he had thought of it as an opportunity to start a new world for his people.

            "Do you think-"

           "No," Stiles said firmly, turning so that he could put his hands over Derek's. "I am _not_ going to let that happen to you. To any of you, okay? You aren't animals. You're people. This is different."

            "Is it?" he asked, voice strained. "When all of this falls apart, and the arenas and the fighting and this whole lifestyle comes to a end, we're still here. What's to stop us from becoming the lions of Rome? Killed or locked up to be forgotten?"

            "Me," Stiles told him. "And you. The lions didn't have anyone speaking for them. They didn't have you or me fighting on their side. They didn't have Scott and Allison, or Lydia and Danny, or any of the other dozens of people who are standing up for you and your people right now. You're not going to end up like them, Derek."

            Derek tried to calm the thrumming of his own heart, but it all seemed overwhelming now that he'd given voice to his fears. Stiles huffed a little sigh and tugged the book out of his grasp, closing it before setting it aside. Derek sat up as he did so, and Stiles used the opportunity to turn and settle himself on Derek's lap. On reflex, Derek lifted his hands to Stiles' legs to steady him, and when Stiles' soft hands touched Derek's face, he flicked his gaze up to meet Stiles' eyes. Stiles smiled and cupped his jaw with both hands so he couldn't look away again.

            "The day I met you, I told you that you didn't have to do anything you didn't want to do," he said gently. "I can't take back the broadcast now, but Braeden says that in a few days they're _going_ to rule in your favor, your contract with the ARC will be void, and I won't be your warden anymore. No one will. You can go to the sanctuary, if you want, but you don't _have_ to."

            "Ask me to stay," Derek said quietly.

            "What?" Stiles asked, drawing back a little.

            "Ask me to stay," Derek repeated. "Tell me you won't let me leave. That I should stay here. With you."

            Derek saw the answer in Stiles' eyes before he spoke. "I can't," Stiles said, voice cracking a little over the words. He leaned forward until his forehead rested gently against Derek's. "Or at least, I _won't_. It's not my decision to make."

            Derek closed his eyes, hanging on to the warmth of Stiles' skin beneath his hands, the soft pressure of their touching foreheads. "I know," he mumbled.

            Despite his nerves, he _did_ know. Stiles had let him purchase the plane tickets himself, and Derek had been the one to arrange his own arrival with Scott. But that had been a week ago, and a week from now had seemed so far off, as abstract a moment in time as it had been almost two years ago when Stiles first approached him.

            Back then, Stiles had told him that everything had a price.

            Back then, he'd had a lot less to lose by paying the debt of freedom.

            "Whatever you decide to do," Stiles assured him in a murmur, "I'll support you. I won't tell you what to do, but I will help you do it."

            "Thank you," Derek replied, finally relaxing enough to tip his head and catch Stiles' lips in a soft kiss. He knew what he had to do, eventually. He knew that the sanctuary was where he needed to go to help his people reach freedom, but for just a little longer he wanted to pretend he didn't know anything except Stiles.

 

* * *

_ Javan Crested dragons are mainly green with _

_accent colors in gold, purple, blue, black, and gold,_

_and have a brightly-colored crest of feathers atop their head_

_that they can raise, lower, spread, and shake in display_

* * *

 

            The airport was packed with people shuffling around and toting small, soft packs like the one Cora and Laura had given him before leaving. Although he had been forced to surrender his large piece of luggage containing all of his personal effects, he'd been allowed to keep their backpack. They had crammed it full of sandwiches and pretzels, two bottles of water, a blanket that smelled like all of them, and three different books about edible forest plant life.

            Derek didn't think that the very short flight would really necessitate all of those things, but it made his sisters feel better, so he hadn't said a word.

            Now he was here in the wide, sweeping halls of the major airport, and he was glad to have something to hold onto. He could hear the large planes sweeping around outside the building, engines growling louder than any dragon. The whole place reeked of coffee, mechanical output, and unwashed humans, layered over with too many different kinds of food to be pleasant. He could see why Stiles preferred driving instead.

            A light touch on his arm drew his attention, and he turned to look at Stiles. "You okay?"

            "Yeah," Derek said thinly, glad that Stiles couldn't hear the beat of his heart. "Don't really have a choice at this point, right?" They'd come too far to turn back now.

            Though Derek wasn't clear on the gritty specifics of the legislation that was allowing him the privilege of making this flight, he knew that things were starting to get better. Special permission had to be granted to him for this flight, but even beyond today, he no longer had to wear a collar. No humanoid super _had_ to wear restraint gear as long as they still had their barcode. Soon, he'd been told, even that much wouldn't be necessary.

            Fighting in the arenas had been put on hold while investigations were being done, which was a relief. At least until the massive snarl Braeden had made of the legal situation had unwound itself, supers wouldn't be forced to injure or kill one another. Additionally, all of the breeding facilities had been put on lockdown, which meant no one would be forced to breed against their will. Unfortunately, it also shut down all traffic in or out of such facilities, until the allegations against the ARC and their extermination plans were cleared. They wouldn't be able to rescue anyone from those facilities for a while.

            Stiles had assured Derek that things were going to go their way. Though there were those smaller groups opposed to the movement, public support had been cascading into Scott's organization since the broadcast. Most government officials, concerned about losing their elected positions, had become vocal about supporting the new changes to the treatment of supernatural beings. The entire movement had a lot of steam, which meant that there were a lot of people watching every move Derek made. He had to keep moving forward.

            "You always have a choice, Derek," Stiles told him, drawing him back to the present. "If you don't want to do this, we can turn around and go straight home."

            "I _am_ going home," Derek said softly, heart twisting up at the little flicker of pain in Stiles' eyes. "You know what I mean."

            "I know," Stiles said, waving it off and giving him an obviously forced smile. "And, I'm gonna come out there as soon as I can. I just..."

            "Yeah," Derek said softly, moving closer and tugging Stiles into a hug. Stiles buried his nose in the crook of Derek's neck, arms warm around his back.

            Derek knew that Stiles had a lot of work to do. The inner workings of the arena system had turned into chaos which desperately needed to be resolved before anything else could begin. For every person that was angry about the mistreatment of supernaturals, there were others just as angry at the prospect of losing their livelihoods. Most of the ARC's focus had turned to working against the Humans for Supernaturals cause.

            Under other circumstances, the HFS campaign might have been crushed by such a force, but a few individuals like Chris and Jennifer had absconded with plenty of evidence to even the score. They were working with Stiles and his network now, providing invaluable help at every turn.

            After all that Derek had done in his arenas, all the blood he had spilled, all the lives he had taken, there was very little left that he could actually do. The fighting had moved to Stiles' arena- into courthouses and town halls, to be fought with pen and paper instead of tooth and claw. The only thing left for Derek to do - for _all_ supers to do - was show that supers were people, too.

            Unfortunately, that meant doing exactly what he was about to do; say goodbye to Stiles and step onto an airplane to head for the sanctuary alone.

            "It's not the end," Stiles mumbled into his shoulder, voice a little shaky.

            "Yeah," Derek agreed. He wasn't sure how it could be anything _except_ the end.

            "We're going to see each other soon," Stiles said, pulling back to look Derek in the eyes. "Isaac is bringing Cora out as soon as the handler bill passes, and if nothing else, I'll be coming out with them. And Scott says all the units at the sanctuary have their own phones now, so we can talk any time."

            Derek wasn't great at talking on phones, but he smiled anyway. "Every night," he agreed.

            "Except full moon nights," Stiles said with a grin. A loud, cheerful ding interrupted anything Derek might have said in return, so he just rolled his eyes. Then a pleasant neutral voice was calling Stiles' flight numbers and Stiles' expression dropped. "That's me."

            They were already standing at Derek's gate, so that he wouldn't get lost. Stiles, however, had to get all the way across the airport to make his flight.

            "Okay," Derek said, leaning forward to touch his forehead softly to Stiles'. They both closed their eyes, and after a few seconds, Stiles tipped his head a little and kissed him. Derek's throat closed up as he kissed back, not wanting to let Stiles leave just yet.

            Stiles reached up and ran his fingers through Derek's hair once, drawing his hands down to hold Derek's jaw so he could look at him. A smile twitched at his lips. "We're gonna be okay. We'll figure it out one step at a time, together. Just like we always have. Call me when you get in to the sanctuary, so I know you made it safely."

            "I will," Derek promised. He kissed Stiles' nose with more than enough of a kissy noise to break the seriousness of the moment and bring a _real_ smile to Stiles' lips. "Don't miss _your_ flight. You've got a lot of meetings to be on time for"

            Stiles sighed dramatically and hefted his own backpack over one shoulder. They shared one more brief, sweet kiss, and then Stiles was hurrying away to catch his plane. Derek watched him go until the bend in the building hid him from view, and then took a seat to wait.

 

* * *

_ Unlike werewolves, shifters are not afflicted with a condition _

_which can be transmitted to humans through bites or scratches_

_and their shift is not affected by the sun or moon._

* * *

 

            Flying was not what Derek expected it to be. Though the roar of the wind and the engines was loud to his ears, it was easy enough to tune out after only a couple minutes. It drowned out the sound of the pilots talking, and the people at the far end of the plane. Stiles had had the forethought to help him purchase a ticket for a small plane with only a handful of humans. He received a few looks when he arrived, but none of them were hostile, and the flight attendant had been very friendly.

            He still would have felt better if Stiles had been with him.

            As it was, he tried not to feel too alone as the plane touched down at the San Francisco airport. Though his position within the plane would have allowed him to be the first to debark, Scott had instructed him to wait until it was clear so that there would be less confusion. The flight attendant kept him company, sitting beside him and chattering in his direction while the craft emptied of passengers.

            "Looks like it's your turn, sir," she said finally, nodding toward the cleared doorway. "Good luck out there. Lots of people rooting for you."

            "Thank you," he said earnestly. He knew she meant more than just at the sanctuary; there was a lot going on in the world he was about to need help with. The first of which was getting through the debarking area.

            Even on a normal day, the airports were crowded full of humans. Boarding the plane had not been nearly as hectic, as only the people with tickets were allowed into the gate area. Arrival was another story. Even though there had been only a few passengers and Derek was the last to leave the plane, there were still dozens of people crowding the debarking area.

            "Derek!" a familiar voice called. Derek craned his neck to catch sight of Scott at the back of the group, waving his hand to catch Derek's attention.

            In the next instant, a camera flash blinded him, and then another, and Derek realized that the humans here were waiting for _him_. He shifted his backpack higher on his shoulder, hunching down a little, even though there was no way he could be missed now. Voices began to clamor all at once, so many that Derek couldn't pick words out of the noise.

            "Let him through!" Scott called loudly, wriggling through the crowd to get to Derek's side. Derek tensed at the feel of his sleeve being so roughly grabbed, but he followed when Scott began to tug him toward the exit. "We gotta get outta here," Scott said, low and urgent as they moved.

            Derek caught a glimpse of brown hair moving past him and then the unmistakable sound of a zap-stick buzzed through the air. He flinched, claws drawn as he turned around to face his attacker, only to see Allison standing over a twitching body. In her hand was a small object with two metal points sticking out one side. She shouted something at the crowd and though Derek's adrenaline was too high to hear what, everyone immediately gave him and Scott a clear pathway.

            On the floor at Allison's feet lay a small knife, dropped by the man she had zapped. Now that it was exposed to the air, Derek could smell the concentrated wolfsbane oil on the blade's surface.

            "Security's coming," Scott said quietly, tugging at Derek's arm again. "Let Allison handle this."

            Derek forced words through his closed throat, keeping his feet planted. The humans were all frozen in place in front of Allison, their attention wholly on her now instead of him. "We can't leave her."

            "Right now, we just need to get you out of here before anything else happens," Scott hissed, tugging Derek's arm again and leading him away from the commotion when he finally relented. "Things have been... _hot_ around here, it's not that safe for supers to be out in public, especially you, after that broadcast. Kira's waiting outside with the car running."

            Over his shoulder, Derek caught sight of security officers arriving, questions flying heatedly at Allison. Nearby, the reporters came back to life and began snapping flashy photos. Allison stood her ground, giving elusive answers in an acidic tone that left the guards stammering. He wondered which one of them would make the top story; the civil werewolf or the feral human.

            "She'll be okay," Scott assured him as they pushed through the exit doors. "She acted in defense of you, so they'll let her go. She'll grab your bags and meet us at the sanctuary later."

            They managed to make it out of the building without being followed, and as soon as they reached the street, a sleek, black SUV rolled to a stop in front of them. Scott opened both the front and back doors and stayed out long enough to make sure Derek was safely inside before climbing into the front seat. Behind the wheel, Kira didn't even wait for both doors to be closed before she pulled away from the curb and into the sluggish airport traffic.

            Even though they had already met over video phone while arranging meet-and-greets, Scott introduced them as they headed for the edge of airport territory. Kira tossed a genuine smile over her shoulder at Derek when she greeted him. She smelled like steel and foxfire and power, and Derek wondered how anyone could have seen her for anything other than exactly what she was: a very powerful kitsune.

            "It's a pleasure to meet you in person, finally," she said cheerfully. Derek liked her. "Sorry about all the... mess. It'll die down eventually."

            Derek wasn't so sure. Kira had never been on the inside of the pit, but Derek had seen plenty of humans who thought all supers were irredeemable monsters, worthy only of a cruel death. He'd been assessed like an animal, been bought and sold, had humans bid on his death and call it a game. It was ugly and everything they had done was causing that ugliness to spill into her world more than it ever had.

            But he smiled back anyway. Despite all of that, he knew that it was going to be hope like Kira's that eventually chased away the darkness of the past. Maybe not in his lifetime, but someday. So instead of commenting, he just settled back in his seat, watched the world fly by outside his window, and tried in vain to relax.

            The drive to the sanctuary was longer than Derek remembered, but he thought part of it might have been his nerves. The last time he had been excited to visit the place for the first time, to find out what it would be like, and to have time alone with Stiles away from the rest of the world. Now he would be alone and without Stiles, even though he had been assured dozens of times that someone would be at the community center if he needed anything.

            It was _different_.

            He still wasn't free, not really. Technically it was Scott's organization that owned him now, instead of Stiles, and the temporary legislation that had passed due to his circumstances was allowing him to come here on the plane. It meant he didn't have to fight anymore, but he wasn't really a _person_ , yet. Once he entered the sanctuary grounds, he still wouldn't be able to leave the fenced-in area without a handler until Cora and Isaac got their legislation passed.

            At least in the eyes of the law, he was still a monster in a cage and - if anything - this one was much more dangerous than his last.

            "Once Allison gets your stuff in," Kira piped up from the front seat, interrupting Derek's thoughts, "I thought maybe you'd like to go grocery shopping?" They were pulling up to the front gate to where she could swipe her ID card. "There's a little food in the place, but it's pretty basic."

            "Sounds nice," Derek said, belly swooping a little as he took in the sight of the huge, wrought-iron gates. It might not have looked like a pen, but he knew that no matter how large it was, no matter what they said about the walls being there to keep others out, they would also be keeping him in.

            It didn't take long to reach the settlement. The buildings were well-tended and clean, and when they reached the community center, Derek craned his neck to see the areas that had been unfinished the last time. There were houses there now, small and made of white stone and metal like his. It looked like everything was now completely functional, it just needed to be filled with people.

            They pulled up in front of his new home a few moments later, the same house where he and Stiles had stayed for their first visit. It hardly looked different. The little tree out front had grown a bit, but the flowers had not yet started to grow in. The off-white of the door was whiter in the sunlight than he remembered, and it all felt... impersonal.

            It was supposed to be home, but it felt like just another pen door.

            "Do you want us to come in with you?" Kira asked, making no move to shut off the engine or even take her hands from the wheel.

            "No," Derek said softly, though he made no move to get out, either.

            "We have the whole day," Scott said.

            It wasn't that he needed their company. It wasn't that he needed company at all; he had spent a large portion of his life locked up in small spaces alone. He knew how to be alone. Harvelle had taught him how to make some foods for himself, and Stiles had made sure he knew how to handle other things around the house before he left.

            There was no _reason_ to have Scott or Kira follow him in.

            Except that he knew the moment he walked into the house, it would be empty. He would remember the scent of Stiles on everything, even if it had been too long ago to be real. He would remember the precious few days they had spent there together, the sight of Stiles sprawled out on the bed, the sound of him showering in the morning or walking around the house inspecting things.

            Now it would be empty.

            He swallowed down the hollow feeling the thought gave him, and turned to smile at Scott. "I'll be okay," he said. "I can call if I need you. I think I just need some time to adjust to things on my own."

            Scott gave him a look which said Derek was probably a terrible liar, but he nodded anyway. "We'll check in with you tonight. The houses all have individual phone lines now, so you don't have to use the community red phone."

            "I know," Derek said. "Stiles told me a million times."

            Grinning, Scott made a motion to shoo him out the door. "Well, go on then. Have a look inside."

            Derek let out a small huff of laughter, and reached up give a light touch to Kira. "Thank you," he said softly. "For driving. And... all your help."

            "Any time," Kira told him, laying her hand over his for a split second. It was warm, and he felt the spectral brush of fur from her kitsune presence before he pulled away.

            He slipped from the car and shut the door with a soft click. He knew that they would wait until he had made it in the house, to ensure that he wasn't locked out, so he strode swiftly up the walk and onto the porch. Stiles had given him a set of keys but they all went to things he'd never had to unlock, so it took him a moment to find the correct one. The pop of the lock was highly satisfying. He turned to wave off the car as he opened the door.

            Stepping inside, he took a deep lungful of air. It smelled sterile, the same as it had the day he'd first arrived. They had probably cleaned it after he and Stiles left, and possibly again before he arrived. He stood in the entryway for a few minutes, listening to the rattle of the car as it disappeared down the street, and then he moved into the house.

            Everything was the same. Small, clean kitchen and dining room. A pair of entertainment and relaxation rooms, a pair of closed off bedrooms, and a bathroom. There was a small basement for storage, though Derek could not imagine what he would need to store that wouldn't fit upstairs. It was all furnished very impersonally, and yet all of it reminded him of how very personal this house had been for him, once.

            A high-pitched noise jangled through the house, startling him, and he turned toward the kitchen. A small, white phone had been attached to the wall at the entrance of the kitchen. Derek let it ring once more, not sure who would both have the number and possibly know to call. He reached out, thinking maybe Scott and Kira had forgotten to tell him something.

            "Hello?" he said uncertainly when he pressed the receiver to his ear. While the number of things he had never done before was ever-shortening, taking a random phone call was still on the list.

           "Derek?" Stiles' voice filtered through the phone, tinged with concern. "Scott just called. He told me about the airport, are you okay?"

            "Yeah," Derek breathed out, finally relaxing to the sound of Stiles' voice. "Yeah, I'm gonna be okay," he added, only this time, it felt like the truth.

 

* * *

_Common arena-type mono-shifters included but are not limited to_

_bears, wolves, large-cats, hyenas, and large apes_

* * *

 

            A knock on the door roused Derek from an impromptu nap. He patted blearily at his chest, looking for the book he had been reading. When he located it, he set it to the side and sat up. Cora's chair was empty of Cora, but she had left a note with her intended whereabouts so that he wouldn't worry. The knock came again, and Derek decided whoever it was didn't plan on going away if ignored.

            "Who is it?" he asked, not bothering to raise his voice. The past three months had seen only werewolves arrive at the sanctuary, so he knew he would be heard.

            "Kali," came the response. "I need to speak with you."

            Sighing, he clambered to his feet and plodded to the front door. As soon as he had turned the handle, Kali blazed into his house, irritation pouring off her so thickly he could smell it. He wrinkled his nose as he closed the door. "What's wrong?"

            "I have plenty of food, I can run wherever I please whenever I want, I lived an entire full moon phase out of any cage," Kali snapped, as though each of those things had personally offended her. "There are no humans for miles and miles, I can choose my own mate-"

            "I don't-" Derek began, confused.

            " _Everything is incredibly dull_ ," Kali snarled, claws popping. Derek dropped his gaze from her in the hopes that she would calm down enough to speak.

            "I don't understand," he said quietly, spreading his soft human hands palm up so she could see. "You can do what you want here."

            "There's _nothing to do_ ," Kali spat, though with less venom this time.

            He knew she was doing her best to stay calm, but he also knew how deep the arena ran in her blood and the blood of the other alphas. A lifetime of fighting made it difficult to accept the peace the sanctuary offered.

            "Ennis is ready to tear the walls apart in frustration," she continued, more calmly now. "And I can't say I'm any better off. This place is _perfect_ and we're... not."

            He felt as if the air had been pulled from his lungs, because he had felt the same the first few weeks that he'd lived here by himself. There was always that itch under his skin he couldn't scratch. It had helped to have Cora and then Laura arrive, but it hadn't completely fixed it.

            "You miss the arena," he said without inflection. It felt vile to say it; the arena was the last thing in the whole world either of them should miss.

            She sighed, turning away from him and running both hands through her hair. "I spent my whole life in the sands," she told him, the fight gone out of her. "I don't know how to do or be anything else." Her voice caught on the words. She closed her eyes. " _You_ may have had training for this world, but _we_ got dumped here, and it's _killing_ us."

            There wasn't anything he could say to that, and they both knew it. His voice cracked when he offered the only thing he could- honesty. "I don't know how to help you. I don't know if anything will ever make this feeling go away, for any of us. But I can tell you that you're not alone. I feel it too."

            A choked puff of bitter laughter escaped her. "He should have left us in the pens," she breathed, voice trembling. "I knew what to do there, how to win. But here? There's no bell to tell us when it's over."

            Heart twisting, he moved close enough to her that he could gently bump his forehead against hers to reassure her. She pressed back and he could feel her shaking. The arena may have been a mess of adrenaline and blood and death, but it was _familiar_. The calm and endless uncertainty of their newfound freedom was, in many ways, a much more difficult opponent to face.

            "You will survive this," Derek told her firmly. "We survived the pens and the arena and all the rest of it. This is just a different kind of fight. You can't win this one with teeth and claws."

            "I could try," Kali joked tiredly before she pulled away, breaking their connection. At least Derek could hear the hint of a smile as she collected herself.

            Then her words began to sink in, and Derek straightened a little. "What if you-" He hesitated, not wanting to give her hope where there might be none. She looked at him expectantly, a little confused, and he shook his head. "What if you _could_? Fight this with teeth and claws... I mean, what if you had a chance to do a little fighting? Like how you used to train with me."

            "We have been," Kali admitted, pulling away from him. "Ennis and I have been sparring. Alone. It wasn't the same." He knew as well as she did that the arena was more than the fight.

            "No, I mean, more than that," Derek said, mind racing. He had read a lot of Boyd's history books, and Stiles had spent hours and hours teaching him about the records they were searching. Though the majority of fighting had been forced between supers, it wasn't _exclusively_ so. "Sometimes, not very often, humans volunteered to fight supers," he explained, heading for the kitchen with her hot on his heels. "If humans can volunteer for fights, why can't you?"

            "I thought we weren't going to fight humans," Kali said as Derek reached for the phone. "That's what you told us."

            "You wouldn't have to fight humans," Derek said, pulling the receiver from the cradle.

            "I don't want to fight supers, either," Kali responded heatedly.

            He left it switched off as he looked at Kali for a moment, considering his idea, and then took a deep breath. "Stiles said that one of the major problems they're having in passing new laws regarding our people is that the arenas would have to shut down. Completely. The humans don't want to lose their jobs, or their entertainment, and it's... I think it's as much a way of life for them as it was for us, and no one's really sure what's waiting for them on the other side of the gate here. They're afraid to step into the arena."

            "I don't want to go back. I just..." She shook her head and ran a hand through her hair, turning away from him. "I can't go back to how it was."

            "It wouldn't be," Derek said. "It would be on your terms, not theirs. No wardens, no handlers. The humans are holding onto so many of our people still. Maybe they think if they let go, there won't be anything left. But... if there was _something_ , however small..."

            Kali tipped her head, eyes narrowing. "You think if some of us volunteered to fight, that it would help the others," she concluded. "You think the humans would let the others go if some of us came back on our own terms?"

            "Maybe," Derek said, mind still racing.

            Some of the older fighters, like Kali and Duke, weren't ready to fit into human society. They weren't ready to act human, didn't want to take jobs as bakers or teachers or mechanics or whatever else. They were still ready to fight. Bloodlust still crawled under their skin at night, sending them prowling the edges of the sanctuary to try to outrun it.

            "If nothing else," he said after a moment of quiet, "it might just help you, to have something to do."

            "Killing each other isn't _something to do_ , Derek," she said hotly.

            "Oh no, no. It wouldn't be to the death," Derek said quickly, although he wasn't surprised that was where her mind had leaped. "Remember, your terms only. Blood or submission. You could pick your opponents, and you could- you could be paid for it," he said as he thought of it. "You'd be like warden, handler, and fighter all in one."

            Her eyes remained narrowed, but he could see her calculating the angles. He let her be, waiting for her to work through the idea alongside him. It wasn't perfect- there were risks involved, and they would have to work out a more solid idea with Stiles and the other humans before it ever made it anywhere official, but... Derek thought it stood a chance at being a viable option for everyone. If it worked, it might give both sides a way to ease into new lifestyles, and truly leave the old world behind them for good.

            "Let me talk to the others," Kali said slowly. "As much as I feel... _out of place_ here, I don't know how I feel about going back, in any capacity."

            Carefully, Derek replaced the phone on the cradle. "Okay," he agreed. "Take your time. When you decide what you want to do, we can meet at the community center and talk about it first. If you all want to try it, we can call Stiles. If not, we can talk about finding another way to work through this."

            Kali looked him over, and then took a slow, deep breath. "I'm glad I was wrong about you," she said quietly. "When you came to the Stilinski facility, I thought you were a redbox walking, just a pup riding your mother's tailwind. You are much more than that, Derek Hale. I will see you soon with an answer."

            He nodded, and she turned away to move for the exit. He didn't bother following her, just listened to the click of the door. While the prospect of a voluntary arena system was bound to be an interesting discussion, Derek found he was glad he didn't have to be a part of it yet. He wasn't sure what he wanted their answer to be, where he wanted that particular path to lead.

            Instead of thinking about it, he wandered back to his room and flopped down on the bed. It was, he thought, as soft as the one he had first been given at Stiles' manor, and yet now he found that it was no longer uncomfortable to sleep upon it. A lot had changed since Stiles first walked up to his pen and offered to open the door.

            He reached over and picked up the book he had been reading before he'd dozed off. It was one of Cora's, a guide to the natural edible plants in the forest. Inside, holding his place, was a folded piece of paper. Derek let the book fall open on his chest, and gently tugged the worn sheet from the pages.

            It was a picture he knew well- the photocopy Boyd had made for him, of the alpha werewolf laying with his head in his human lover's lap. It felt as though it had been centuries since he had been given this gift, this flickering light of hope in a dark world.

            He wasn't sure what he had expected from freedom. Some part of him had hoped it would be this- the peace of a warm summer day lounging in the forest with Stiles, reading a book without the threat of fighting looming over their heads. The rest of him had thought maybe it would just be a fresh, new start, one where he could simply be free from humans, do whatever he pleased.

            What no part of him had expected was to feel like Kali described. No part of him had expected that anyone would desire to go back into the sands once they had been given their freedom to leave them behind forever. It wasn't supposed to work like that. It was supposed to be... better. Easier. Free.

            With a sigh, Derek folded the paper and set it back to mark his place. It didn't merit thinking about until Kali had spoken to the others. It would be his problem then. For now, he laid the book aside, and closed his eyes.

 

* * *

A. Seraphim _ have no eyes, although it is suspected the soft patches on their faces _

_(typically covered by their upper wings) are sensory receptors which transmit information_

_about their environment, including light, heat, and movement_

* * *

 

            Derek lay with his front paws hanging off the edge of the newly built dock, the tips of his claws just barely brushing the water's surface. Tiny fish swirled around them, scales flashing in the bright midday sun. Golden rays of light warmed his fur, still wet despite the shaking he had done after his brief swim. Summer was thick in the air now, the scent of greenery and damp soil clinging to his nose after the storms that had just passed over the sanctuary.

            Lately he had been shirking his leadership duties in the afternoons to take long, hard runs through the forest, ending in brief swims in the shallow part of the lake. He had been learning to paddle around in his wolf form and could make it just about to the center of the lake before he needed to turn back.

            The last time Stiles had called, he'd suggested Derek try taking human form and floating on his back. Trusting Stiles, Derek had given it a try, but it had nearly ended in disaster; his human form had much denser bones than actual humans. Even holding in a huge breath couldn't keep him afloat the same. So, he stuck to scooting around the water as a wolf, nose in the air and all four feet kicking to keep afloat until one of his sisters came to fetch him.

            He doubted that they would come quickly today. It was too nice of a day and he had been too busy the last few days talking to all ten of the sanctuary's residents about Kali's plans. Nearly a month had passed, and they'd gone back and forth talking about how it would work, and who would be first, and trying to chase out the doubts about how the humans would react to the offer. They hadn't even gotten around to talking to any of their allies on the outside, not even Stiles or Scott.

            Soon, he told himself, putting his head down on his paws to watch the little fish. Stiles had told him that things were getting worse out there, rather than better. He'd warned Derek that the media had started in their favor, but now there were reports surfacing of supers being turned loose or killed when their wardens could no longer afford to care for them. Worse, there were stories circulating of supers outright turning on the humans who still held them captive against their will.

            Now there was a moratorium in the works that would prevent any more supers from being transferred to the sanctuary during deliberations. The last new arrival had been two weeks ago. That was when Derek had started taking runs, to ease the knot of fear that had settled in his gut. Everything they had done couldn't stop here. It couldn't be over already. There was supposed to be a new world forming, a better world. A safer world.

            His ears pricked as he heard something moving across the lake, interrupting his thoughts before they could begin to strangle him with his anxiety. He lifted his head, trying to catch sight of what was coming. Sometimes deer or other wild animals wandered in for a drink, and Derek got to forget the fences that penned in the lake to either side while he watched the animal. For just a little while, he got to watch and wonder what it would be like to cross the lake and run the other side of the fence, in true freedom.

            He caught sight of the reeds along the shore wavering as something large moved through them, and he lifted his nose expecting the soft breeze to carry the scent of a deer to him. Instead, it brought the scent of fear and blood. Eyes widening, he scrambled to his feet, taking in the stale scent of unwashed fur, ears straining to catch anything across the expanse of lake.

            Ripples scattered across the water, catching the sunlight in a shower of sparkles as something sloshed into the lake. It was no deer, no prey animal- it was a super, just like him, and it was severely injured, struggling to stay upright in the muck-sticky shallows. Derek's stomach sank, and he gave a high, sharp bark that echoed across the surface.

            The creature froze, and when it turned its head to look for the source of the noise, Derek could see the half-shifted features. It was some kind of shape shifter, but he couldn't place which sort through the mud and blood and overwhelming scent of fear. He raised his jaw and gave a long, low howl, one that hopefully his sisters would hear.

            _Trouble at the lake!_

            Then he did the only thing he could; he jumped into the water, and began to tread toward the other side. If he had made it halfway and back, he knew he could make it to the stranded shifter. All he had to do was keep going, keep swimming, until his paws could touch the sloppy lakebed floor.

            As he approached, the shifter wobbled to its feet and began to head for the shore again. Before Derek could attempt to assure the other it was okay, he realized it was also moving for more stable ground. He pushed himself harder, changing his trajectory so that they would both end up in the small, sandy patch of shore that Derek had spent so many hours staring at from across the lake. It was one of the only places that would be an easy exit from the water.

            Halfway across, the shifter had beaten him to the sand. It took a few shaky steps, practically heaving itself to shore, and then collapsed. In a panic, Derek barked as loud as he could, relief coursing through him when the shifter lifted its head. Slowly, it moved so that it could watch his approach. As he drew closer, he could see that it was actually a she, and she had her claws out, ready for a fight.

            _Friend!_

            He called the word with every bark he could make, until he was able to stand in the shallows. She watched him warily, but he could tell it was taking most of her energy just to stay conscious. He stayed in the water as he shifted back to a human form, holding his hands up in surrender.

            "You're hurt," he called, keeping his distance from her. "I'd like to help. There are others coming that will help you, too."

            "Help," she croaked through a raw throat, unable to even add inflection. He wondered how long she'd been out in the wild. He wondered what had damaged her so badly that she wasn't able to heal herself, and how she had survived the journey to his doorstep.

            "Yes," he breathed out, sloshing toward the shore, hands still up. "My name is Derek, and I'm going to help you."

            Her body shivered and some kind of noise passed her lips. He couldn't tell if it was a sigh or a laugh. Her jaw slacked a little, and though he waited for something else, some other word, she said nothing. His heart felt as though it had stopped as he crossed the last few feet between them to kneel at her side. It was only by virtue of hearing her heart still beating that he knew she was alive.

            At this proximity, he could see her wounds. They had begun to fester, the flesh around the edges turning black and green. He glanced across the lake, but there was no sign of his sisters or anyone else from the sanctuary yet. For now at least, he was on his own to help her.

            Gritting his teeth, he looped his arms under hers and dragged her back to the shallow water. The bottom of the lake here was sandy and almost firm, and he was able to get her body at least partially into the water so he could begin to clean the wounds. With one sharp claw, he began to carve away the infected flesh, carefully scrubbing out the wounds with some of the sand and rinsing them with water. When he pushed the cleaner edges together, they began to sluggishly knit.

            Halfway through the second huge rent in her chest, he heard a commotion across the lake. A howl alerted him to his sisters' arrival, and he raised a hand to wave to them. So far he was the only one at the sanctuary that had braved swimming far enough to lose traction on the lake floor. They wouldn't be able to learn fast enough to get here to help him, but they could send for extra help.

            "She needs a vet!" he yelled, as loudly as he could. If they'd been human they would never have heard him. "Call Scott, get someone here!"

            _What happened?_ Cora's howl sounded tinny, half eaten by the ripples in the water.

            "Don't know! She's hurt!" He didn't know what else to say. He had no idea who the little shifter was or where she had come from or why she was so grievously injured with no one to help her but fate.

            Already Laura had disappeared from sight. Cora prowled along the edges of the lake, watching him as best as she could. Derek turned his attention back to the injured shifter, cleaning wounds and pressing flesh back together. The water around them was stained black and red, a cloud of infection and blood. He needed to get her someplace cleaner, someplace safer, but he knew he wouldn't be able to carry her across the lake.

            In his arms she stirred, lifting one clawed paw to press it weakly against his chest. "It's okay," he told her, feeling the prick of her curved claws draw blood. With some of the dirt and blood rinsed away, he could tell she was a canine shifter, though not a werewolf. "I'm cleaning your wounds so you can heal. Can you tell me what happened?"

            An awful noise rasped out of her, despairing and injured, and she closed her jaw on it in an attempt to keep it in. "She thought I was dead," she grated out. Her throat sounded just the slightest bit less raw, and Derek hoped she was healing inside as well as out. "My warden."

            Derek swallowed the sick feeling that rose in his throat and continued cleaning the abrasion on her arm. As soon as the dirt was out of the wound, it began to form new skin. "Your warden did this to you?"

            He caught the small nod she gave, heard her throat close as she held in another wail. "She tried to- she..." The girl began to struggle, as if to get away from him.

            "Shhh," Derek soothed, loosening his hold a little so she wouldn't feel as trapped. He waved his free hand through the water to chase away some of the blood and give her a chance to see she was healing. "She's not here. She won't hurt you again."

            He released her as she struggled completely free of his grasp and onto the shore. A heavy, rasping noise escaped her as her body began to heave. He began to follow her to the sand just as she began to vomit a foul black liquid. A moment later, something solid followed, and then she backed away, gasping for breath and wiping at her mouth as she began to cry.

            Chest tight, Derek reached out to pluck the small, solid object from the viscous liquid. He didn't recognize what it was, but he knew what the black liquid meant; she had been poisoned before she was injured, and that was why she hadn't healed. Whatever this was, it was probably responsible- Scott would need it if he had to fight to keep her at the sanctuary, the same way Stiles had needed Laura's blood.

            Beside him, the shifter had curled into a small ball, arms wrapped around her knees and head tucked down. Derek moved close enough to rest his knuckles on her shoulder. Now that her body had purged the source of the poison, her wounds were healing properly. Unfortunately, Derek knew that it wasn't her body that would need the most healing.

            "I'm sorry," she mumbled, voice cracked and spent. "I'm sorry, I-"

            "You have nothing to be sorry for," Derek told her, soft but firm. "You've done nothing wrong. But I do need you to get up now. I don't want to ask this of you, but I need you to be strong just a little longer. Look."

            She peeked out from her cocoon and followed his gaze to across the lake. Cora was still pacing the shallows waiting anxiously for them. Kali, Ennis, and Duke had joined her, all of them standing strong along the shore. The shifter looked uncertainly back to Derek.

            "That's my pack," Derek said, ignoring the flicker of warmth and pride that came with being able to say that so easily now. "And we're going to help you. But we can't do that on this side. You have to come to the other side with me."

            "My s-" she swallowed a hiccup and started again. "My sister. I had to leave her- her... I had- sh-she's back there..."

            "Alive?" Derek asked as gently as he could.

            The girl shook her head, throat closing up on a sob.

            Derek leaned forward and touched his forehead to the top of her head as she began to cry again. "I swear to you that I will send someone for her body, or go myself, but right now we have to take care of you. Do you understand?"

            She nodded and uncurled a little, her body still shaking. "I can't cross that."

            He offered her the best smile he had, and then pointed to his right. The shore was reedy but looked solid, just as it was on his side of the lake. "We're going to walk along that, okay? Then I'll help you around the fence, and we'll take you to our home."

            For a long moment she just sat trembling in the sand, eyes locked on the considerable stretch of land between them and the fence. He wondered how far she had already walked, as damaged as she was, and whether or not he'd have had as much will to live if it had been him in her place.

            "Okay," she said at last, uncurling completely.

            He waited until she had made a complete shift before following suit. It was easier to keep her unsteady balance on four legs instead of two. He took the lead by only a shoulder, staying beside her to keep her upright. Her grey and tan fur brushed his and as they walked he could smell the mixture of poison and infection leaking from her closing wounds. He wasn't sure if that meant her body was purging the tainted substances or if she was going to return to her previous state.

            It didn't take as long as he expected to reach the fence, and the rest of the pack was waiting for them when they reached it. Cora sloshed into the water with Kali immediately, and they helped pull and carry the younger shifter around the fence's border. Laura and Ennis were at Derek's side, asking questions he didn't have answers for as they hobbled as a group up to the home shore.

            With the girl's permission, Ennis carried her back to the sanctuary's community center. There was a first aid station within, and Scott was already inside with his mother and two people Derek didn't recognize. They rushed the shifter in, and locked everyone else out, banishing them to the main gathering area to wait.

            After it became clear that whatever was going on inside the first aid station was going to take a long time, Laura and Kali disappeared and returned shortly with a dry set of clothes for everyone. Once they were changed, Duke and Ennis slipped into the small kitchen to prepare some kind of dinner. Cora sat cuddled up to Derek's side, a solid comfort while they waited.

            "What happened to her?" Cora asked after a while, eyes locked on the door to the aid station.

            "Her warden tried to kill her," Derek said, the words leaving an unpleasant taste in his mouth. "Poisoned her, cut her up, dumped her body in the woods, I guess. Her and her sister."

            Cora didn't ask what happened to the sister. The fact that Derek had not left to fetch her as well told her all the story she needed. "Why would anyone do that?"

            Derek shook his head and rubbed both hands through his hair, feeling some of the residual water slick his fingers. "I think things are getting bad out there," he said softly, leaning his head back against the wall and looking up at the ceiling.

            "We should be out there, then," Cora said. She gave the words no particular inflection, but he could feel the small tremble of frustration and anger in her. "Fighting this."

            Derek let out a sigh. Just earlier today they'd been sitting in this very room discussing how to start a voluntary arena service. They'd talked about whether or not it would get other supers out, save them from captivity. They had been sitting at tables, drinking fresh, clean water and eating foods cooked in kitchens while this little shifter had been clinging to life, alone and scared in the forest beyond the safety of their walls.

            It wasn't exactly what he had expected when he'd volunteered to save the world.

            Down the hall, the medical station door opened, and Scott slipped out. He was drying his hands on his pants, and the scent of blood and infection clung to his clothes. Derek was on his feet in an instant as Scott approached them.

            "She's okay," he began, holding up both hands to prevent Derek from rushing past him into the room. "Or she's going to be okay. They're finishing up, and you can go in then."

            "Thank you." Derek breathed a short sigh of relief as Cora stood up next to him. He held out the small, irregular object the shifter had vomited up. "This... was inside her."

            Scott frowned as he took it from Derek's palm, but he didn't look surprised. "Another one," he said angrily. At Derek's questioning gaze, he held it up to the light. Derek could see it was metal of some sort, stained in the shifter's blood. "They've started finding them inside of dead shifters. They're hollow, filled with mercury or wolfsbane oil or sometimes ground holly or troll saliva. After an hour or so, the stomach acid eats through the trigger casing, and blades pop out. Looks like this one malfunctioned... leaked the toxin but without the blades."

            "Their wardens are doing this to them?" Derek asked. "Feeding them... these things?"

            Scott shook his head. "Not usually, at least not that anyone can prove. It's..." He gave a small, helpless shrug. "Extremists. Or hunters hired by the ARC against loose supers. They shoot them from firearms, into the gut, and the wound heals up behind it. She's lucky to be alive."

            "I'm not sure she'll agree," Derek said as the aid station's door opened. Scott's mother, Melissa, poked her head into the hall and beckoned him with a small motion. He excused himself with a look to Scott, and went to join her.

            "We've purged as much of the poison from her system as we could," Melissa told him, still drying her hands on a small, white towel. "If she makes it through the night, she'll make it. But, I suggest that you, or at least _someone_ , stay with her and keep her conscious until then. Your bodies heal faster when you're awake."

            "Okay," Derek agreed, nodding for good measure. "Thank you. For getting here so fast, and for helping her."

            She laid hands on his shoulders and looked him in the eyes with a smile. "I will _always_ help you. Now, go help her."

            Derek forced a smile for her, and they traded spaces through the doorway. The other two humans in the room glanced up at him, but said nothing as he took a seat beside the young shifter lying on the padded medical table. He held out his hand, and she put hers into it. Derek was only barely aware of the humans exiting the room when she smiled.

            "Your humans helped me," she said roughly.

            "Yes," Derek said. Though the scent of blood and toxins still clung to the air, she smelled of healing now. "They do that around here."

            "They don't... out there," she said, lifting her chin to indicate the world outside the sanctuary walls.

            "Some of them do," Derek said. "Some of them are trying to make sure the rest of them can never do to anyone else what was done to you."

            "Not just me," she said quietly. "Before... they were talking about a revolution. Freedom. That... but it never happened. They shut down the arenas, and it's worse now. They took us to-" Her words dropped off and she just shook her head.

            "You don't have to tell me anything," Derek assured her.

            "There's no rules in the fighting anymore," she said, meeting his eyes. "Our warden took us to fights, sometimes for days with no recovery. I watched two handlers kill a fawn with zap-sticks and no one stopped them. If you can't recover after a fight, they just kill you, or they-" she paused and scrunched her eyes shut. "Or they take you away like they did to me and my sister."

            "Is that where your wounds came from?" Derek asked softly. "You were in a fight with another super?"

            When she opened her eyes, she wouldn't meet his gaze. "He- he was drugged. I don't think he knew where he was."

            Derek closed his eyes and rubbed tiredly at his face with his free hand. This was a world in upheaval, a world without structure, no foundation, no design. He had torn everything apart but he had not put it back together again.

            "I'm sorry," he said softly, the knot in his belly tightening at the words. "I should have been out there helping to stop all of that. I should never have let it come to this. I'm going to stay with you tonight, and tomorrow morning, I'm going to start fixing it."

            She gave him a small, thin smile that warmed her eyes. "You're just a wolf," she told him. "Out in the middle of nowhere. You can't fix it."

            "I did it once before," he said quietly. "Or I tried to. My name is Derek Hale."

            "Oh!" she breathed. "You're the one that started all of this!"

            "Yeah," he said, not sure if he meant it to be an admission or confession. "And now I'm going to end all of it, too."

            She stared hard at him for a moment, all manner of emotions flickering across her features. Finally, she relaxed into the small, white pillow behind her and shook her head with a breathy noise. "I suppose if anyone can save the world, it'd be you," she conceded.

            "How about I start by saving you...?" he said, trailing off to wait for her name.

            "Malia," she said, giving his hand a squeeze instead of a shake. "My name's Malia."

            "Malia," Derek repeated. "Then, today I will save you, Malia. And tomorrow, the world."

            That got a small chuckle from her. "If that's the best you can do, I suppose I'll take it. Not a lot of hope to go around these days."

            "I can fix that, too," he said with a soft smile.

            They both knew the world wouldn't be fixed tomorrow, but Derek knew that it would start. He would talk to Scott tonight, and call Stiles in the morning. After seeing what had happened to Malia, after hearing what she would inevitably tell them about the state of the current arena-less world, he knew that they would all want to fight. They would all want to play a part in preventing this from happening to others.

            But for now, he would take this on as he had taken on all of his arena fights- one step at a time, starting with the little coyote shifter that had crash landed on their doorstep.


	14. The Rubble Of Our Sins...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. We've all somehow managed to make it to the final chapter of this monstrosity. Some of you have been coming back here since Day 1 almost two years ago now, some of you are here for the first time. Either way, I am so incredibly grateful to have had you along for any part of this ride. I hope that you have enjoyed what you've read so far, and that the ending does the rest of the story justice.
> 
> As always, my deepest gratitude goes to my story beta readers, Elin, Redbirdblogs, and Broodingsoul. Elin has spent countless hours listening to my anxiety about plot and characters, Redbirdblogs has fearlessly had my ear about /anything/ which might be off in the story doing cold reads, and Broodingsoul has almost always been the fastest beta on the track, making sure the first read through clears the basics. You three have been great!! Thank you <3

 

 

* * *

C. Chimera _have a viper-like appendage for a tail_

_but, like two of the three heads,_

_it lacks any sort of independent brain_

* * *

 

            The community center was a clean, formal place, with off-white walls and soil-brown accents everywhere. The counters were made of some kind of plastic that was supposed to look like wood and didn't quite manage. Since Malia's arrival two months earlier, Laura had been working to personalize the place with bundles of drying herbs and spices hung all along the walls. It gave the entire place a pleasant, if sometimes overly strong scent that masked the chemical smell of the fake wood.

            Derek wasn't sure how much it actually _helped_ the new arrivals they'd been receiving, but it made Laura feel better, so he hadn't tried to stop her. He figured that it had to be better than the conditions of the illegal fighting rings that had been exposed recently. As soon as Stiles had found out just how bad things were, and about Derek and Kali's ideas about voluntary fighting, he had leapt into action. The last four arrivals had all been rescues from those fights, and Kali and Cora were working closely with Isaac, Allison, and Braeden to start the necessary work on voluntary arenas.

            With the others so busy, it had fallen to Derek and Laura to run things on the inside of the sanctuary. She decorated the center, called community meetings to form social bonds, and checked in on everyone almost every day to make sure they were integrating safely. He kept himself appraised of current events which might affect the sanctuary or its denizens. He also played liaison with the outside world, arranging for the arrival of new residents and supplies.

            Which was how he found himself sitting alone in the community center, fidgeting with the edges of the papers on the desk in front of him. He had laid out food and drink on the table across the hallway, and made sure that everything looked as warm and inviting as he could. The papers in front of him were printed copies of photographs, each depicting something around the sanctuary- the inside and outside of various houses, areas of the community center, pleasant places in the woods and by the lake.

            Of the thirteen residents, only Derek and his sisters had come in knowing how to read. One of the meetings Laura held was a reading class, which was by far the most popular, rivaled only by her cooking class. Since the new arrivals had a while before they could read, the easiest way to teach them about the sanctuary was to give them photographs and talk to them in person.

            A car horn beeped outside the center, interrupting his thoughts, and Derek sprung to his feet. He gave a quick brush-down of his clothes, trying to smooth down imaginary wrinkles. He didn't want to mess up this meeting in particular. Even though all of the residents mattered, this one was different. This one mattered to him on a _personal_ level.

            He hurried to the front door and pushed it open, feeling a little wobbly at the sight of the sleek, black SUV that Kira drove. He could hear voices on the far side of the parked car, and then a car door shut. A few seconds later, Kira rounded the nose of the vehicle with a young, dark werewolf trailing behind her. Derek couldn't keep from smiling.

            "Nidria," he called out, drawing the young wolf's attention away from gawking at the scenery.

            She burst into a smile. "Derek!" she exclaimed, and darted the rest of the way around the car. He set his feet and she stopped a pace in front of him and stomped a foot playfully. The scent of happiness blossomed in the air between them and he knew if she'd had a tail, it would be wagging.

            "You made it," he said when she straightened.

            "Thanks to you," she replied, then motioned to Kira, who was leaning one hip against her car. "She tells me you petitioned to get me released."

            "I did," Derek confirmed. "I wanted to bring you here first, but it took them a while to find you."

            Nidria sobered a little. "Why me?" she asked softly. "There are thousands of other fighters out there you could have rescued."

            "I made a promise," Derek told her. "To your mother." He didn't say that he had only promised to speak well of Kitara to her children. Of all people, he knew what it was like to lose a mother. He owed more than words to Kitara's children, as many of them as he could find, starting with Nidria.

            She gave him a skeptical look, and he could see her trying to decide how to react. In the end, she just let it go and nodded toward the community center. "So, you gonna show me around or what?"

            "Yeah," he said, smiling again as he stepped out of her way so that she could move into the community center. He caught Kira smiling, and he nodded to her. "Thanks for bringing her."

            "Of course," Kira told him, shifting her hip to push away from the car. "You all set?"

            "For now," he said. "I'll get a list through to Scott when she is settled in, for anything she might need. Thank him for us."

            "Sure thing," Kira said, pulling open the car door. "Take care, Nidria." She nodded to Derek. "Derek."

            As the SUV began to wheel around to head for the exit, Nidria whistled to Derek and then indicated the open door. "We doing this or what, Big Guy?"

            He let out a huff of laughter and then followed her into the building. She spotted the food almost immediately and, after quickly turning to him for permission, dashed over to begin popping grapes into her mouth. She snatched up a few slices of cheese and meat, ignoring the crackers that looked so much like the standard biscuit chow that fighters were fed, then turned around to face him.

            "Don't eat too much at once," Derek cautioned her before she could add the cheese to her mouthful. He wondered if she'd come directly from her home facility, and whether or not that meant that even the well-kept fighters were still being fed the bland nutrient diets. He added it to the list of things he would have to speak with Stiles about next time they got a chance to call. "You'll feel sick."

            She gave him a look, but she finished chewing her mouthful of grapes. "Sorry," she said when she was able. "So, what's the real deal with this place? They told me some, but, you know, _humans_."

            Derek nodded, and plucked the sheaf of photos from the desk to hand to her. She began flipping through them as he spoke. "They probably weren't lying to you," he began. "We've got a couple thousand acres of free roaming space, mostly woodland. There are some fields out by the lake and-"

            "Lake?" Nidria echoed, looking up from the photos.

            "It's like... if someone filled an arena with water and put it in the ground," Derek said. "I'll show you later. I think you'll like it."

            "If you say so," she said, popping a bit of cheese into her mouth. "They said I'd get to pick a house. Like, one of the ones we saw coming in."

            "Yeah," Derek agreed, pointing to the photos she was holding. She'd gotten to the interior ones of the kitchen and bedrooms, with all of the various possible trappings to decorate. "You can pick any of them, if there's one you like better but... um-" He halted, feeling a little silly now that he was going to say it aloud. He cleared his throat. "I, uh, I made sure that the unit next to mine was clear."

            She raised an eyebrow. "I don't need a guardian," she said. "I can take care of myself."

            "You can," Derek agreed, holding his hands up a little to placate whatever part of her pride he'd wounded. "It's more for me, so I can know you're safe. I did a lot of damage getting here."

           "Watching over me won't change that," Nidria said softly, meeting his eyes. "You could save every super in the world; it won't bring the others back. When I was little, my mom told me you can't change the past, but if you let it haunt you, then the past will change your future."

            Derek stared back at her, heart thick in his throat. The past was going to haunt him no matter what he did; there was blood on his hands that no amount of scrubbing could ever wash clean.

            A small smile twitched at the corner of Nidria's lips, and she tapped the photos against her hand thoughtfully. "But, yeah, sure. Whatever, I guess I can live next to a softhearted puppy like you," she said lightly, brushing aside the weight of her previous comment with a grin. "So, what are we waiting for? Let's go see the place."

            With a smile, he held out a hand for the photos and she passed them over. He set them back on the reception desk and lead her out of the community center. The walk to his house wasn't far, though they stopped short at the building snuggled beside his. It was the same off-white as his, with bright flowers blooming out front. It wasn't a real garden, just some wildflowers Laura and Cora had dug up on one of their runs, but it made the place look less sterile.

            She stopped at the end of the walk leading to the building. When he turned to look back, he could see uncertainty scrawled across her features, and she was breathing just a little too quickly.

            "I don't- I don't think I-" She stopped and shook her head.

            "It's okay," he said, moving back to her side. "You don't have to go in yet."

            She let out a slow breath, lashes fluttering over an unfocused gaze. "I just-" She swallowed and turned her attention to Derek. "I feel like I'm gonna wake up, you know? Like... this is just what everyone dreams about when they fall asleep, and any time you start dreaming you know you're gonna have to wake back up to the nightmare. I keep trying to tell myself that this time it's real, but there's that feeling. When I walk through that door, what happens if I just wake up?"

            Carefully, Derek laid a hand on her shoulder and he could feel her trembling. "Nidria, listen to me," he said, low and soothing. "Do you know what's going to happen when you walk through that door?"

            She shook her head, clearly knowing it was not a real question.

            "You're gonna walk through that door, and into a hallway," he continued. "At the end of the hallway, there will be a kitchen and dining room on your left, and a couple of sitting rooms on your right. Those rooms lead to two dens and a bathing room. And do you know what else?"

            Again, she shook her head, though she felt steadier under his palm now.

            "Tonight, when you're done looking at everything you can put your little paws on, you're going to go into one of those sleeping rooms, and you're going to climb up onto the nest there, and you're going to sleep. You don't sleep in dreams, do you?"

            "No," she breathed out, smiling a little now. "I don't."

            "Okay, then," he said, straightening and taking a few steps backward toward the house. "Let's go have a look around."

            With a nod, she followed him, each step a little more confidence than the last. He lead her up the path, to the small porch, and opened the front door for her. Though she hesitated a second, she crossed over the threshold, heart beating like a hummingbird.

            He watched as she walked down the hall and looked left, and then right, and then back at him. "It's all real," he said, knowing she would hear him anywhere in the house. "And it's all yours."

            He heard the moment she started to cry, and the low, broken, but utterly _happy_ way she whispered " _Thank you._ "

 

* * *

A. Archangelus _have two feathered wings_

_the joints of which are formed below the scapulas_

_rather than as a part of them like they are in_

_other six-limbed flighted creatures_

* * *

 

            Derek closed the front door behind himself and wiped his feet on the mat. Though his feet were bare, it was a dry day, so they were only a little dusty from his walk to the community center and back. In his hands was the stack of papers that had been dropped off for him, mostly forms and registrations, though he had seen a postcard from Stiles in there as well. It was a couple of days old, which meant the big, arching, white thing on the front was probably some artifact in Missouri. Derek had seen the news broadcast covering Stiles' meet-and-greet with Negira at a riverside there.

            He set the papers on the kitchen table, beside other, similar bits of ignored paper, and then turned away from all of it in favor of heading for the bathroom. He didn't have the patience to deal with filling out forms or distributing the new registrations. After almost four months now, the details of voluntary arena sparring contracts had finally been hashed out. Next week would mark the first of the matches.

            It was no small mercy that Derek didn't have to be fully in charge of the new arena games. Kali and Ennis had mostly taken over organizing who would spar with whom first, though both the personal registrations and the match registrations would still come to the sanctuary marked for Derek. It would all still be required to pass his inspection the same way he assumed it had to pass by Stiles and Heather.

            Heather's arena, the first to volunteer pit space, was also one of the closest. Since Stiles and Heather had been childhood friends, he had recommended that they choose to launch their games at her venue over the three others that had inquired. It would allow them a measure of control they wouldn't have if they worked with strangers. Control, he was finding more and more, was something which Derek truly appreciated.

            It helped that Heather's arena had been the one where he had found Laura again. Though he had no fond memories of the event, he was grateful for the end result, and the part she had played in eventually getting Laura out.

            He wasn't sure where he would be without Laura's help now. Cora and Isaac were now playing liaison with Scott's group most days, bringing in newly freed supers at least once a week. He and Laura had been taking care of introducing new denizens to the area, answering questions, and relaying information to Cora about the needs of the community. Already two spokes of the community wheel had been filled with over fifty people, most of whom were solo occupants, and things were starting to get interesting.

            On top of the retired fighters, there were now three different families, removed from breeding facilities only a week ago as the venues began truly shutting down. The arrival of the families meant that a few small, precious children were scampering around the grounds. Derek had seen them only a couple of times, but he could hear them almost constantly, and their delighted cries were one of the few things that kept him moving forward when everything threatened to overwhelm him.

            Today, however, the children were inside and there was a stack of arena fighting registrations on his table. Cora and Isaac had been gone for two days and Derek hadn't heard from Stiles in almost a week. Laura was supposed to come for dinner, but he wasn't sure he was up for even that right now.

            What he _was_ up for, was a long, hot shower.

            He had just turned on the water to warm up when the phone began to jangle on its cradle. Even though he closed his eyes and counted to five, the ringing didn't go away. There were only a few people who actually called him rather than come over in person, and all of them were important enough to delay his shower. With a sigh, he shut the water off and padded back to the kitchen.

            "This had better be good," he said instead of a greeting.

            "Rough night, eh?"

            Derek's heart sped up just to hear the sound of Stiles' voice. "I was starting to worry about you," he said softly.

            "Yeah..." Stiles breathed out, and Derek could tell he was every bit as exhausted as Derek felt. "I've been- I'm working on a new project. I know, that's like the last thing I need, right? But we're working out details for getting the first of the non-humanoid supers set free."

            "Negira?" Derek asked instantly, feeling hopeful. If there was anyone who deserved to be free, it was that dragon.

            Stiles made a hedging noise. "They're not up to dragons yet, it seems. At least, they're not ready to release them into the general public. There's talk of setting up preserved land for them, if anyone can figure out communication to get some kind of agreement signed."

            "Ah," Derek said, realizing what was going on. "You think since I can talk to her, I can liaison for something like that. And here I thought you just wanted to catch up."

            "Mm," Stiles said, clearly catching Derek's teasing tone. "Well, catching up is a nice side effect. Especially nice since these negotiations mean I won't be able to make it to Kali and Duke's first match."

            Derek's heart sank. He hadn't seen Stiles in a while, with both of them tied up in legal and social matters. He had been looking forward to a few nights out with him, taking a break from the stress to relax with Stiles like they used to do. "Oh," he managed, not knowing what else to say.

            "I'm sorry," Stiles murmured. He sighed, and Derek could hear how tight his throat was. "I blocked out a couple of weekends next month," he offered softly. "You don't have any fights scheduled for them yet. I thought maybe I could come visit, or you could come here for a couple days."

            Derek nodded, and then remembered this wasn't a video call. "Sure," he said, throat closing up on the word. He didn't know what he expected freedom to be like, but he had hoped for more sunlit afternoons reading books and less stolen time and phone calls and business plans. "It would be nice to get away for a little bit, visit you and Negira."

            "Okay," Stiles said, sounding a little relieved. Derek wondered if he'd expected Derek would say no. He couldn't imagine saying no, even if he _had_ had plans. "I- I actually have to go, I just wanted to make sure you knew, so you didn't make plans. I really want to see you."

            "I'll be there," Derek promised.

            Even though he couldn't see it, he knew that Stiles was smiling now. "Me too," he said. "I'll call again tonight when I get home."

            "Tell Negira I said hello," Derek said. "And good luck at your meetings."

            "I will, and thanks," Stiles said.

            There was a moment where the line was just quiet, and then finally a soft click sounded in Derek's ear. He replaced the phone on the cradle and stood there staring at it, unable to force himself to move. He wasn't sure what just happened, but he hated the way it made his throat close up and his hands shake and his chest feel tight.

            He wanted to take off running, head out for the perimeter and keep moving until his muscles gave out. When he'd arrived, alone and separated from his friends and family, he'd gone on runs like that. He knew they didn't work forever, but they gave him some distance from the stress. They gave him something to think about that wasn't how he'd gotten what he'd been promised when they started, and he wasn't sure he wanted it anymore.

            Instead, he simply walked away from the phone. He walked back to the bathing room, and he turned on the shower, and then he walked away from that, too. He circled the living rooms once, and then the bedroom, and he was still shaking when he reached for the closet door and shut himself inside.

            Here it was dark and quiet and warm.

            He sat down with his back to one of the corners, and pulled his knees to his chest. Closing his eyes, he crossed his arms on his knees, put his head down, and let himself get lost in the darkness.

            This place might not be a pen, but it wasn't _home_ either.

            Even with Cora and Laura living so close to him, even with all the freedom to change his environment to be whatever he wanted, it wasn't quite right. His den didn't smell the same without Stiles. He missed the sound of the supers in the barn. He missed lazy afternoons reading books with Stiles or Cora on the couch with a movie on for background noise.

            This place might not be a pen, but it _felt_ like it.

            He wasn't sure how much time passed as he let those thoughts run loops in his mind, but he barely heard the click of the front door when it finally came. He could hear his sister calling his name, but he didn't bother to call back. The beat of his heart and the draw of his breath would bring her to him soon enough.

            When the crack of light from the doorway fell across his eyes, Derek curled up tighter and made a noise of protest. Laura sighed and shut the door behind herself as she got into the closet with him. He scooted over enough that she could squeeze in next to him and put her head on his shoulder.

            "You missed dinner," she said softly, not letting it become an accusation. He loved that about her.

            "I wasn't hungry," he mumbled into his arms, not really caring if it made him sound like a little kid. He'd had enough of being responsible for the day. He'd had enough of being strong when he felt like falling apart. If he wanted to sit alone in his closet and pretend the world had gone away, he should be allowed.

            "You shouldn't lie to werewolves," she said, bumping him with her head a little. "Your heart's kind of a traitor."

            "Tell me about it." He huffed a tired laugh and lifted his head to look sidelong at her. "I'm sorry I missed dinner."

            "I have every confidence you will make it up to me in steak," she told him lightly. "Besides, seems like you might have more problems than missing dinner."

            "What gave it away?" he asked dryly.

            "Something between the two weeks worth of mail piled on your kitchen table, the shower running with no one in it, and finding you curled up in a ball in your closet, naked," she said without even pausing to think about it first. "You know, he's not that far away."

            "Might as well be," Derek said, resting his head on hers. "He's not _here_."

            Laura sighed. "You were a really stubborn puppy, too," she told him. "If he's not here, or if he can't come here, then why don't you just go there? You could stay with him."

            "And what happens to this place if I leave?" he asked quietly. He wasn't sure which answer he wanted to hear; that everything would fall apart or that no one would miss him.

            "It's not a perfect plan," Laura admitted. "But I can run things alone for a while. Kali and Duke will help. Cora and Isaac and Scott and Allison and Kira... they'd all understand if you needed a break. Light Above, Derek, you haven't stopped moving since you set foot on the grounds. But the whole world's not resting on your shoulders alone anymore. We can help you now."

            They sat in silence after that, Laura letting Derek just turn the idea over in his head. He could hear the beat of water from the shower, and the kids shouting down the street as they played. Nidria would be arriving home soon, and would come over to talk to him about the social developments of the sanctuary. Tomorrow, Kali would come looking for the registrations he ignored tonight, and he would go with her to deliver them to their holders.

            In two days Kira would arrive with a small truck full of supplies, and he would need to have a new list to give to her. She would stay to talk to him about the construction of two stores just outside the sanctuary, stores that would be run for the supers. One was a grocery store, the other a restaurant. He would ask her about the progress being made toward declaring the first supers as citizens, and she would give him a look that said _don't hold your breath_.

            And that was the crux of it.

            Here, he was surrounded by his people. These were the people for whom he had spilled blood, for whom he'd fought and killed. These were the people whose freedoms he needed to ensure, and he wasn't certain he could do that from outside of the sanctuary. They came to him with questions and concerns. They trusted him. He needed to be here for them, not away for himself.

            "I can't," he choked out, barely a breath. "I can't just leave."

            "Okay," she said softly. "But if you change your mind, my offer stands."

            "Thank you," he said, pressing his cheek against the crown of her head for just a heartbeat. He felt her smile against his shoulder.

            "Also, I'm not going to make you get up if you don't want to," she continued. "But, I'm pretty sure Nidria is due back soon and this closet will get really crowded with three people."

            Derek's short bark of laughter caught him off guard, and he shoved lightly at Laura to remove her from him as she started chuckling at him. "Get out of here, furball," he told her, clambering to his feet.

            She popped up and opened the door for him. "Go shower," she told him as she exited. "I'll make you some food, and we can clean up some of your table before she gets here."

            "Okay," he agreed, giving her a small smile and feeling infinitely grateful to have gotten her back. If nothing else in the world went his way, at least he and Laura still had one another.

 

* * *

_Southern Ridgebacks have monochromatic scales in black, grey, or brown_

_Females have red eyes, while the males have green eyes_

* * *

 

            The trees surrounding the manor had shed all of their leaves, leaving the property looking desolate. In the distance, stark against the bones of the forest, stood the barn, a stain the color of blood against the landscape. Derek rested his head against the window of the cab and watched the building grow larger as they approached. Although he was thrilled to be here, this would be his last visit until after the new year. Though Derek had visited twice since leaving for the sanctuary, Stiles hadn't had an opportunity to come to him. Derek told himself that with Laura at his side, it was easier for him to get away from his responsibilities than it was for Stiles to do the same.

            Rather than going to the barn, the cab rumbled to a stop at the end of the drive, just outside the manor's garage. Derek sat up, brows furrowing, and looked around the area. No Stiles.

            "This where you meant to go?" the driver asked, looking at Derek in the rearview mirror.

            Derek scanned the area again, confused, and then cracked the car door open. "Yes, this is the address," Derek said as he stood up and squinted toward the barn. Despite that Stiles was supposed to meet him here, there was no sign of him.

            "You want me to wait while you knock?" the driver asked, now turning around a little. He knew what the situation was; Scott had been the one to arrange for Derek's car ride out here, since he couldn't technically fly without a lot of special arrangements. They'd had to be very candid with the driver that had agreed to take him.

            "No," Derek said, distracted. He sat back down on the edge of the seat. "I have a key. Thank you, though. I'll just grab my stuff and you can head back home." Derek was thankful he didn't have to deal with the money transaction, either- he was still learning currency exchanges and appropriate charges. Stiles had paid for the transport in advance this time.

            "I can get your stuff, son," the guy said, opening his own door and clambering out. "You go ahead inside and find your friend."

            Derek stood and offered the man a grateful smile and a nod. They parted ways, with Derek heading for the side door of the garage. His key gave a very satisfying click, and Derek slipped inside.

            He stood just inside the door and closed his eyes, taking a long, deep breath. It smelled like _home_ here.

            Letting out his breath, he opened his eyes and headed into the house. He could smell Stiles, but the scent was everywhere with no good lead as to where he might have been. When Derek paused to cock an ear to listen for a heartbeat anywhere nearby, the closest one was in the kitchen. He knew it wouldn't be Stiles, but it would be nice to see Harvelle.

            As he approached the kitchen, the scent of cookies became nearly overwhelming. Whatever else the residents at the sanctuary had learned, they had a long way to go when it came to cooking and baking. Their cookies especially were nowhere near the melty, delicious goodness Derek had so loved here. He nudged the kitchen door open and peeked inside.

            "Derek!" Harvelle called as soon as he spotted him. "Come in, come in! Where's Stiles?"

            Before Derek could answer, Harvelle had wrapped him up in a big hug, squeezing him enough that if he'd been human he might have been unable to breathe. As soon as he was released, he put a little space between them. "I was hoping you knew where he was," Derek admitted.

            Harvelle gave him a thoughtful look for a moment, and then cleared his throat with a little shake of his head. "Well, he said he was going to check on that great big lizard of his. Maybe he finally got eaten. Shame, I'm making spaghetti and meatballs."

            Derek smiled fondly. He'd gotten much better at eating spaghetti since the first time sitting down at Stiles' table. "She wouldn't eat him. She knows she'd get a tummyache," he said, getting a chuckle from the chef. "But I can go check on him. Thank you."

            "Sure thing," Harvelle said, moving back toward the stove. "Dinner's hot in twenty minutes, and then I'm heading out and you're all on your own."

            "Noted," Derek said, heading for the door. His eyes landed on the huge platter of freshly baked cookies sitting beside the exit. He hesitated. "Hey Harvelle.... any chance one of these is for me?"

            Laughter erupted behind him and Derek grinned. "They're all for you, Pup," he said. " _After_ dinner."

            Derek rolled his eyes, and nabbed one of the cookies as he slipped out of the kitchen. It was every bit as amazing as the first one he'd ever tasted, and he savored it slowly as he walked outside and across the grounds. Despite the absence of summer's warm touch, the sun was still bright in the sky, making it a very pleasant walk.

            When he reached it, the huge front door of the barn was wide open. He crossed the threshold in one big step, still feeling like he was crossing into a different world. The pen doors to the humanoid enclosures were all open, the pens themselves devoid of life or movement now that the other alphas were all at the sanctuary.

            As he walked past, he could hear Az breathing in sleep somewhere at the back of his pen. The door was still closed and locked, but there was no one left that could speak to Az to explain anything to him. Derek hoped that they would be able to free him soon, the same way that they were freeing Yoena, the little gryphon across the hall.

            As he passed her enclosure, Yoena bounded to the front of the enclosure to greet him in a babbling language he didn't quite catch. He knelt to rub gently under her ears and felt her chirruping purr rumbling beneath his fingertips.

            Her cage was no longer locked or closed, granting her free access to Stiles' property, but she was still as used to her familiar cage as Derek had been to his. He just hoped that her taste of freedom here would ease her transition; when he left this time, she would be coming back to the sanctuary with him as one of the first free non-humanoids.

            It was something they had been working on alongside of the voluntary arena fighting, getting the standard-class, non-humanoids like Negira and Yoena their freedom. Surprisingly, the smaller non-humanoids, those that found in Underclass Divisions, had already begun to be released to their homelands due to the actions of a vocal activist community that arose near Las Vegas. Due to their actions, there had been news footage of a quickly-forming colony of rainbowy fire-lizards that had made their home in that city. Far from hurting the tourist attraction of the general area, the lizards had begun clearing out pest animals and bringing in humans interested in taking photos of the colorful creatures. 

            With that success unexpectedly under their belt, the way had begun to be smoothed for the larger non-humanoids. Part of the reason Derek had taken this trip was to talk to Negira, and facilitate a discussion between her and the humans that Stiles was going to have to come up against at his next court session. There were worse excuses for a visit, he told himself as Yoena gave his fingers one last nibble and then bounded back into her enclosure.

            He stood and walked the last few paces down the wide hallway, to the cage at the end. The interior door to Negira's pen was closed but unlocked. Almost the entire far side of the pen was open, as if the wall were just missing, leaving Negira free to come and go as she pleased. Derek doubted she left the pen except to lounge in the sunlight or stretch her wings under cover of darkness. She knew better than to compromise her situation by exposing Stiles.

            Derek spotted Negira laying coiled in a sunbeam, the light dancing in purple and green sparkles on her scales as she breathed. Her hide was crisscrossed with pale pink scars, and Derek felt a little flutter in his stomach at the reminder of all that she had endured. Stiles had stopped applying the black-dye lotion to her scars, letting them show so that he could talk to the public about the dark side of the arena world.

            For a moment Derek just leaned against the doorway, watching her and enjoying the weight of her presence against his mind. It was nothing like the first time they had met; they had certainly come a long way.

            _If you think much louder, Blood of Fenrir,_ she said without moving, _you'll wake our human._

            He smiled and pushed himself lightly away from the door frame. She had Stiles after all. He had probably fallen asleep against her belly, exhausted from everything he'd been doing. Derek knew how long some nights could be, trying to build a new world. Even though dinner would be cold by the time they got back, Derek wasn't willing to wake Stiles just to eat. Instead, he stripped out of his clothing, laying it in a neat pile by the doorway, and stretched out into full wolf form.

            _We wouldn't want that, would we,_ he answered, when he was able to do so almost silently. He padded over to her and when he could see past her wings he found he was right. Stiles was sound asleep against her belly, her tail coiled up in his lap like a great snake. _At least some things are still the same._

            She lifted her head and gave his cheek a rough lick. _He is changed. You are changed, too. That is the price of destroying a world; you earn scars that may never heal and losses that cannot be regained. You have my condolences, Wolf. And my gratitude._

            Derek's throat closed up on a whine at her words, and he nosed at the edge of her jaw in silent thanks. So many humans and even other supers had offered him congratulations, applauded him for what he had done, what he had accomplished. It felt hollow, knowing the blood he had spilled and the lives he had ended. Knowing that anything he had gained was at the expense of something else; his innocence, his safety, his love.

            Negira was the first to express understanding that however great the achievement, so too had been the cost.

            "Derek?" Stiles said sleepily as he stirred. "Oh no, I'm so sorry-"

            Negira shifted so that Stiles couldn't get up, and Derek moved to Stiles' side so he wouldn't have to leave her to get to him. As soon as he was in range, Stiles reached up and buried his fingers in Derek's cheek fluffs and began scratching. Derek licked his face and crowded closer, until he was practically lying in Stiles' lap. He felt Negira's tail pull free, only to coil around both of them.

            "I'm sorry," Stiles repeated. "I must have dozed off. The naughty lizard was supposed to wake me up if that happened."

           Derek flopped down completely, pinning Stiles to the ground, and rolled over to expose his belly in clear forgiveness. Stiles began rubbing his belly fur and relaxed against Negira once more.

            "Okay, if you insist," Stiles said through a yawn. "We can stay here a little longer."

            With a few contented, grumbly noises, Derek settled in against Stiles and closed his eyes. He didn't want Stiles to become a part of the price he paid for changing the world, even though it had done a good job of keeping them apart so far. He wasn't sure they deserved better, wasn't sure they deserved happiness, but they hadn't deserved a lot of things that had still been forced on them. Maybe just this once it would be okay to take something for themselves, worthy or not.

            _Tell me, Wolf,_ Negira said as she laid her head back down upon the soft green grass of her enclosure. _When you destroyed the world we knew, did you think you would have to live in the rubble?_

            _What do you mean?_ he asked, looking over at her upside down.

            A crackle of warmth fizzed in his mind, the laughter of a dragon _. Whatever you have done to get here, it is in the past of a different world, one no longer within reach. You have paid a heavy price, but you_ have _paid it. Now, it is time to rebuild. Start anew._

 _I don't deserve a new start,_ Derek told her softly.

            _You don't have a choice_ , she replied, closing her eyes. A soft thrum filled the air around them all. _Your last debt is only to yourself. Your happiness now depends solely upon your own forgiveness. Pay it, and move forward._

            Derek sighed and closed his eyes too. Though he knew that she was right, he didn't know if forgiving himself was a price he was capable of paying.

 

* * *

A. Cherubim _breathes through openings on the chest,_

_though vocalizes from the throat and mouth._

_Its most common vocalization is a long, eerie wail_

* * *

 

            The courthouse was huge, with tall, arching ceilings and wide, sweeping hallways. Everyone was dressed in suits or somber dresses and seemed to mostly mind their own business, with noses stuck in pages of documents or eyes fixed on the elegant artwork on the walls. Derek was wearing a suit as well, though he was sure he wore it with much less comfort. The material was stiff and itchy and there was no way he would be able to shift if he needed to get out quickly.

            Fortunately, despite the milling protesters outside the building, the guards were doing their jobs and keeping the inside in order. There was little chance he would have to escape in the middle of the proceedings. He was at the courthouse voluntarily with Laura and Cora, and they were supposed to be meeting Stiles very soon.

            His head was a little light and his hands a bit clammy, because they hadn't seen one another more than a couple times in the past three months. The last time had been over a month ago, when Derek had visited to fill out paperwork for this very court session. It had been a nice break from running the sanctuary, even if the sanctuary had needed less and less of him running it in order to survive.

            Lately, others had been getting involved in their own governing. Laura, with Ethan, Aiden, and Malia, had taken on organizing community welfare, including the first plots of land they had cleared for farming. Nidria and Scott had been thick as thieves for weeks before she'd brought home the first of the preserve's new livestock.

            Kali and Deucalion had completely taken over arranging dates and training for the voluntary arena matches. Close to half the residents at the sanctuary had volunteered for fights, and there were now seven venues that were regularly scheduling matches for them. Danny and Lydia had quickly shifted to become their outside contacts, paving the way for others that wanted to help ensure the fights would run smoothly.

            With the official videos of the first few fights being released to television, word had begun to spread. The crowds were not as packed as they had once been, but they were getting closer with every fight. If nothing else, both Stiles and Scott's fathers had reported that it had been getting harder and harder for law enforcement to find illegal fighting.

            The money the fighters earned mostly came right back to the community. The stores outside the gates of the sanctuary had opened and there were a few supers who were learning how to run them. For the moment, for legal reasons, the stores had to be owned and operated by humans, but Derek hoped that today would be the beginning of the end of that. After all, that was the reason they were at the courthouse.

            Today was the day he, Laura, and Cora would sign the final documentation and take the final oaths to become legal citizens. After today, or at least after all the paperwork finished going through the system, they would have all of the same rights as any of the humans observing the proceedings. If they were so inclined, they would be able to move away from the sanctuary and find jobs outside of the arena. They could buy houses or land, and start real lives.

            The best part, Derek thought, was that this would set a precedent. Within a year, the rest of the humanoid sanctuary residents would be signed in as citizens and for perhaps the first time ever, they would have a real choice about what would happen to them. Actual freedom instead of just a very large pen.

            "Derek," Cora hissed, nudging his elbow with hers to get his attention. He looked up and followed her line of sight to the double doors at the end of the hall.

            He was dressed in that familiar white suit, a dark shirt on underneath and dark shoes with white toes. It reminded Derek of the day they had first met, when Stiles had first offered him a chance to get out of arena fighting for good. Though it had been years since then, and they had lost a lot along the way, he would get a chance to truly fulfill that promise today.

            "You made it," Derek said breathlessly as he met Stiles halfway, his hands gently finding the edge of Stiles' arm. It was held close to his body in a white sling to match his outfit, barely noticeable. Stiles shrugged past his hesitation, using his good arm to pull Derek into a hug. His nose was cold in Derek's shoulder, evidence of his walk through the cold, windy March weather.

            "Of course I made it," Stiles said against his skin. "I wouldn't miss this for the world."

            Derek pulled back enough to lightly brush his fingers over Stiles' arm. "You gave it a good try."

            Not all of the humans of the world supported their movement. There were still protests like the one staged outside today, and some of them had gotten more violent than others. Stiles had been injured only two weeks ago, at a Humans For Supers educational convention, when a small group of extreme activists against their cause had gotten inside and taken out assault weapons.

            As bad as that had been, some good had come from the situation. An older bear shifter, there with his former Warden, had placed himself between her and the attackers. He had taken several bullets, but refused to injure any of them in return. The many, many cameras at the premiere event had gotten photos and videos from every angle, and the story of a super saving humans was still being splashed across the news. Stiles, having helped deflect their attention and cool the threat, had been interviewed several times.

            However, Derek could tell that he didn't want to talk about it, so when Stiles rolled his eyes and waved his free hand to dismiss his concern, Derek let him. "Are you nervous?" Stiles asked instead.

            Though he didn't like to admit it, Derek _missed_ talking to Stiles in person. When they spoke on the phone it was always stilted and awkward, a reminder of how little they had been able to meet and how far apart they really were now. He had no visual clues as to what to say or when to talk and so they usually ended up sitting in silence, listening to one another breathe. This was different. Better. Alive.

            "Really nervous," Derek told him, giving his arm a final, quick squeeze and then pulling away completely. Stiles was beaming at him. "But really excited."

            "You should be!" Stiles exclaimed softly, peeking around him to see Laura and Cora approaching. "It's a big day. A good, big day. You're gonna change the world again today."

            "Yeah," Derek said, turning a little to welcome his sisters to the conversation. "I just wish I could tell _how_ it's going to change."

            "Laura, Cora," Stiles greeted, shaking hands with both of them. "Good to see you again. I hear the sanctuary is doing well by you."

            "It's coming along," Laura said vaguely with an impish smile. "It'll be even better once we finish up here. There are a lot of people who think they're ready to be set free upon your sheltered little world. It will probably mean an apocalypse. Chaos. Destruction."

            Stiles chuckled. "According to some people anyway," he said. "But, they're getting fewer every day, and the law is on your side even if the ARC isn't."

            "I thought they were replacing the committee," Derek said.

            The last time he'd been updated, all of the committee members were being interrogated to determine their level of involvement with the eradication scheme. Arrests had been made, though no one had yet been charged with anything due to the fact that the laws involved were still being determined. Stiles had said that it was unlikely that any of the ARC members would actually be convicted of anything, as they hadn't broken any pre-existing laws, but that the committee itself would have to be dismissed or replaced.

            "They are," Stiles said. "Kind of. It's just, there's no guarantee that the replacements are going to be any more on your side than the originals. They might not be able to cause as much genocide, but who knows where they'll fall in regards to helping you and the others toward real freedom."

            Derek's brow furrowed. "We're going to be citizens today," he said.

            "Exactly," Stiles said with a big smile. "What you three do today is going to make it a lot harder for them to move against supers. Speaking of moving... we should probably get in."

            "There's still half an hour before we're due," Laura pointed out, but she took a step toward the courtroom anyway.

            "It's best to get in early," Cora said. Derek caught the little smile that twitched at Stiles' lips, because she had beaten him to saying it. "That way, if the other stuff gets done sooner than expected, you're there. And because then you can get a feel for the judge and other humans."

            Laura rolled her eyes, but she smiled as well. "You learn that out with Isaac?" she asked.

            "Among other things," Cora said with a touch too much mysteriousness before leaving them behind to open the doors.

            Derek took a deep breath before he crossed the threshold. After the broadcast, he had been taken to a lot of courthouses just like this one. Some smaller, some larger. They had asked him questions upon questions, made him tell them everything he could, anything they wanted. Some of the questions had been invasive; they had asked him about everything from the fire to his family to his fights.

            They had asked him about Stiles, and those were the worst lies he'd ever had to tell. No love, no sex, no intimacy- nothing beyond a warden desiring to see his charge be recognized for the intelligent being he was.

            He didn't relish returning to such a sort of place.

            This one, however, seemed... brighter, somehow. Only a few people even bothered to look their way and their gazes did not linger. At the end of the short walkway was a gate, and then the judge, sitting behind a plain desk that was covered in papers and pens. There were two people beyond that gate that were standing next to the judge's desk, each of them with papers in their hands.

            Stiles herded them into the sitting area and onto a bench together before taking a seat on the end closest to the aisle. He gave Derek's hand a quick squeeze, and then they all settled in to watch the proceedings until it was their turn. Derek shifted between listening to his sisters quietly going over the words they were going to have to say and the two people at the front of the room arguing about their problems.

            After a time, Stiles nudged Derek's arm, and they all looked up front. The two people were gathering the papers that had been spread all over the judge's desk. They didn't speak and neither one of them really looked pleased, but something must have been decided.

            "The court will now see Laura, Derek, and Cora Hale in regards to declaration of citizenship oaths," called a well-dressed man from near the gate.

            Derek clambered to his feet with his sisters, and they moved toward the front of the room with Stiles at their heels. The man in the suit opened the gate for them and waved them through with a bored expression. Derek wondered if he even knew they were wolves, or if he just didn't care.

            Now that they were walking up to the person that had the power to determine their fate from here out, Derek's hands had begun to tremble. He was suddenly very grateful for the outside guards that had been keeping the protesters and press outside of the building. He couldn't imagine doing this with a gaggle of picture-happy press folks waiting in the stands.

            "Papers?" the judge said, holding out his hand. Cora placed a yellow envelope full of their papers into it, and the judge pulled them out and began to sort through them. The trio of wolves stood perfectly still, watching until he finally reached the bottom of the pile. "Which one of you is Mieczysław Stilinski?"

            Stiles waved his hand and said with a smile: "You can just call me Stiles, or Mr. Stilinski if you prefer. Though, nicely done, I think you're the first person since my mom died to get that right."

            "I try," the judge said dryly, clearly not impressed. "And which one of you ladies is Laura?"

            "Me, sir," Laura said quickly.

            "Mhmm," the man hummed, looking back at the papers, sorting out which documents belonged to whom. "Mr. Stilinski, please step forward here." He indicated the left hand side of the desk. "The rest of you on this side please."

            They rearranged themselves appropriately, so that each of them had access to a small part of the desk. The judge placed their already-signed set of papers in front of each of them, including two pages in front of Stiles, and then pulled out a thin, leather bound book that Derek knew contained a copy of the nation's constitution. He placed this in the center of the table, and then handed each of them an expensive-looking black utensil.

            "Mr. Stilinski, do you, being of sound mind, agree to sponsor these three new citizens of the Northern American States?" he asked.

            "I do," Stiles said firmly.

            "And you understand that this means that for the first six months of their citizenship, you agree to be held liable for any and all damages done by them and to share in any successes accomplished?"

            "I do," Stiles said. This was not a normal part of the citizenship oath, Derek knew. He suspected that, once they had been citizens for a while without mishap, future citizens would no longer need initial sponsors. For now, he was willing to take all of this however he could get it.

            "Then mark your documents, and your oath shall be sealed," the man said.

            Stiles lifted the black utensil he had been given and touched the tip of it to his left thumb. When he tapped the button, a soft click sounded and a drop of blood welled on the pad of his thumb when he withdrew. He pressed his thumb to the document, leaving a blood print, and then passed the papers to the judge.

            "Which of you would like to go first?" the judge asked, turning to Derek and his sisters.

            "Derek," Cora said automatically, before Derek could say a word. "Derek should go first."

            "Then, Derek," the judge said, facing him. "As you have no previous nationality, I don't have to ask you to renounce it. I suppose we'll start with the acceptance." He cleared his throat. "Do you, Derek Hale, being of sound mind, pledge your allegiance to the Northern American States, and to uphold and defend its laws and principles the same as any of its natural citizens?"

            "I do," Derek said softly. He raised his chin a little and said more clearly: "I will."

            "And do you agree to do whatever is found necessary to protect and serve this country when it is required of you by law or situation?"

            "I do," Derek agreed. He had already done, he thought with a glance to Laura and Cora.

            "Then upon the marking of your documents, you shall hereby be considered an Northern American States citizen, to be obedient to its laws and to protect its boundaries, citizens, and ideals from any that mean them harm."

            Derek's head felt light as he lifted the instrument from his short stack of papers. The last page had been placed on top of the others, and the large blank space that awaited his thumb print felt like it might swallow him up whole. He glanced to Laura and Cora, and they nodded encouragingly to him.

            He placed the tip of the instrument against the pad of his thumb.

            All he had to do was press the button, and the device would draw a drop of his blood. With it, he would sign the page in front of him and leave behind the destruction in favor of becoming a part of a new world. Of all the pain and death he had caused along the way, all the loss and hurt he had survived, it seemed fitting that the last drop of blood he spilled should be his own.

            _Your last debt is only to yourself_ , Negira had told him.

_Pay it, and move forward._

            One drop of blood, and it would finally be finished.

            _I forgive me,_ he thought, and pressed the button.

 

* * *

_So much of the supernatural world has been neglectfully unexplored due to ignorance of_

_the true biology, culture, and history of those peoples who populate it._

_With this new Guide, we shall seek to rectify this condition to the best of our abilities._

_-Authors' Note,_ Boyd's Guide to the Supernatural _by Vernon and Erica Boyd_

* * *

 

            Derek fidgeted in front of the mirror, smoothing down his dark hair once again. His normally pale eyes looked bright against the flush of his cheeks, and he tried to remind himself to calm down. His stomach tightened at the thought of calming down, and he groaned and turned on the bathroom faucet. The cold water felt good on his face and hands, doing more to calm him down than chasing his thoughts in endless circles.

            It was just an interview, he told himself.

            He knew it wasn't _just_ an interview, though. It was more. It was the _first_ interview that would be done within the walls of the sanctuary. It was the interview that would reveal to the public what exactly was going on with the supernatural people that had been freed from the confines of arena life. If it went well, it would be a major step toward proving that they were every bit as intelligent and capable of living in society as any human.

            Which was great, except that Derek had only done a couple of interviews, including the original broadcast, and this time, Stiles wouldn't be there to help him along. This time it was just him and Ms. Greenberg, the only human he trusted to give the interview a fair shot. At least he had met her before, spoken with her on the phone several times to arrange her visit, and knew that they got along.

            It still made him so nervous he couldn't stop his hands from trembling.

            A sharp knock on his front door preceded a shout from his sister, and he shut off the water. "Coming," he said, knowing that she would hear. He gave himself one last stare in the mirror, and then pushed himself away from the counter and headed for the exit. Along the way, he grabbed his suit coat from the back of his couch.

            "She just got to the gate," Laura said without preamble when he opened the door. "Cora's gone to meet her. The center's hall is set up for you, but I think you should meet the crew outside first, since it's not going to be just Desdemona."

            "That's fine," Derek said, pulling the door closed behind him. He shrugged on his suit coat and Laura supervised him buttoning and straightening it to make sure he did it right. The dark outside fabric was a blue that was almost black, accented by a pale blue tie that both of his sisters had agreed matched his eyes.

            Together they hurried down the street toward the community center, their dress shoes tapping against the asphalt in a way that felt supremely unnatural. Derek had grown far too accustomed to wandering the preserve barefoot, along with so many of the other residents. Today, everyone had been instructed to either stay indoors or come out dressed for human society. Judging by the deserted streets, most of them had chosen the former.

            A chunky, white van was pulling up alongside the community center just as he and Laura arrived. He couldn't see anyone through the tinted front windows but before the wheels had even stopped turning, Greenberg was hopping out of the passenger side and practically bouncing toward them.

            "We made it!" she announced, extending her hand for Derek to shake. He still didn't entirely understand this human custom, but he shook her hand anyway and watched Laura do the same. "It's so good to see both of you and _wow_! This place is just _amazing_!"

            Behind her, the two members of her crew were clambering out of the news van. One of them almost immediately shouldered a large camera and began walking toward them. Derek could see the tiny red light that meant the camera was recording, and watched the human fiddling with dials and buttons to adjust things.

            "Yeah," Derek said slowly after a moment, looking back to Greenberg with a smile. "We've been able to do a lot with the place, since there's not really any regulations. Our limitations are really what we have the ability to do and the funds to make happen. The funds are a little bit of a problem, but that's getting better with the new arena system."

           "Yes!" Desdemona exclaimed. "You know, I went to one of those matches last week. Well, I went to more than one, but I went to one last week that was pretty packed. They had a pair of mythic all-shifters who had agreed on a full-shift match... they were stunning. I think the audience was more excited to see them rapid shift than they were to actually see them hurt each other."

            "It was an amazing match," Laura agreed. "I wasn't able to make it, but I saw the video of it later. Kind of makes me wish I could shift that fluidly into that many forms."

            "Me too," Greenberg said with a laugh.

            Derek felt a little flutter in his belly at those two simple words. He had never once heard a human express a desire to be like a super, not even Stiles. It felt odd, alien to his ears, but he liked it. He wondered if there were others out there who felt the same, or who would begin to feel the same.

            "So, we have everything set up inside," Derek offered, when it seemed like the conversation wasn't going to continue along its previous track. He motioned to the cameraman who was still filming them, despite that this was not what they'd come to record. "Your friend seems eager to start the interview."

            Greenberg glanced over her shoulder to see what he meant, and then laughed again. "Chad? He's ah... well, we can't go inside just yet. Laura had us come early because she said there's another guest arriving soon. We wanted to be sure to catch her arrival for the spot, since she's the newest resident, right?"

            "A new...?" Derek trailed off, looking at Laura in confusion. As far as he knew, there were no new arrivals scheduled until after the summer solstice. "Who's coming?"

            Laura shrugged, not quite looking at him, and her heartbeat ticked up in speed just a fraction. He caught the ghost of a smile at the edge of her lips and he realized that whatever was going on, she had been conspiring with Greenberg to pull it off. He decided it didn't matter. Laura was perfectly capable of arranging new residents without his approval, and had done so on several occasions. He was just glad that she had come far enough from the wild, feral creature he had first encountered to do so.

            "Okay," he said, holding up both hands in the human surrender gesture. "Keep your secrets. I'll find out soon eno-"

            He froze, senses prickling as he heard a sound that he'd not heard in a long time.

            They were far off but getting closer quickly. He turned to look at Laura with wide eyes, but she was looking to the sky with a huge smile. Above them, a darkness blotted out the sun for an instant as Negira soared past them. He caught sight of some kind of strappy, leather and cloth restraints or harness on her underside before she disappeared down one of the streets, hidden by the trees.

            _Dragon!_ he called out wordlessly, not bothering to hide his surprise.

            _Wolf,_ she greeted warmly from out of sight, sounding very pleased with herself.

            Derek barely registered the camera pointed at the sky as he backed up, scanning the skyline for her. She would come back to them here, after wheeling around somewhere in the distance above the treetops. He wasn't sure where she would land- on the ground with them or on the rooftop to show off. Knowing her, it wouldn't be the ground.

            _What are you doing here?_ he asked, even though he knew very well what she was doing there. She had to be the new resident that Greenberg and Laura had kept secret from him. Stiles hadn't mentioned anything to him about it, which meant he had wanted it to be a surprise as well.

            _Coming home,_ she said simply.

            A moment later she crested the treetops and came into view, a much slower flight this time. He could see that she was using her front limbs to grasp the lumpy part of the harness across her chest. He wondered if she had flown here from Stiles' manor, or if she had been transported and set free at the gates.

            He had a million questions but they all stuck in his throat as he watched her pull up over the community center. The thundering noise of her backwinging to land filled the air, drowning out everything else until her back paws touched the edge of the rooftop. She set down gracefully on three paws, and then reared back onto two. When she began to spread her wings to the sky and raise her head, Derek covered his ears with both hands.

            His precaution did very little to mute the deafening trumpet of her greeting.

            _Show off,_ he teased as she dropped back down to four paws and began to practically slither down the side of the building to the ground. Beside him, the cameraman, Greenberg, and Laura were all backing off quickly.

            Negira gave a soft, puffy hiss as she hit the ground, and then she pulled herself up and began fiddling with the simple latches of her harness. When the lumpy cloth part began to move, Derek realized it wasn't an arena confinement harness at all; it was some sort of loose satchel, made for carrying something large. He swallowed thickly, breath stuck in his throat as she undid the last clasp. With her claws pulled in for safety, she reached out quickly to catch her cargo before he fell flat on his face.

            Just like the day they had met, he was dressed in a white tuxedo, a dark tie at his throat and dark shoes on his feet. The fabric was wrinkled and his hair was ruffled, but the smile on his face said that he was still proud of what he had done. Derek knew that he was staring, but he couldn't seem to make his mouth work. This was the first time Stiles had visited the sanctuary and Derek wasn't entirely sure this wasn't a dream.

            When Derek only stood there staring, Stiles spread his hands in a welcoming gesture and said: "Not going to say hello?"

            The words broke the spell, and Derek found himself stumbling to close the last few paces between them. Stiles laughed as Derek wrapped both arms around him and lifted him off his feet in a tight hug. When he set Stiles down, Stiles only hugged him tighter, heartbeat racing happily. Derek found that his throat was too tight to speak still, so he looked over Stiles' shoulder and met Negira's eyes.

            She tipped her head a little, her twin horns glinting in the dazzling sunlight. Every nerve in his body was lit up with the reverberation of her joy as well as his own.

            _You're really staying?_ he asked her, not needing to speak, not daring to hope this was all real. _Stiles, too?_

            _We are free now, and we have both come home,_ she confirmed, echoing her earlier statement. _It is time to start over in peace._

 _No more fighting?_ Derek asked softly, burying his nose in Stiles' shoulder to hide the tears that had welled in his eyes. Everything in the world felt right as Stiles held on just as tightly, not ready to let him go yet. Derek didn't want to let go ever again.

            _No more fighting, Derek,_ Negira agreed, moving forward to bump her snout against them both.

            Stiles laughed through a throat just as tight as Derek's as he let Negira nudge her way into their embrace and in that moment, Derek knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was finally, _finally_ home.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you interested, the scene break quotes throughout the story have been pulled from my two story bibles. The first is the [Division Regulations Handbook](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1b4rpQbUfPnH7trJSekU5XxGomuWdaLdT07K0wNb7sac/edit) and the second is [Nodstrom's Guide to the Supernatural](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1sMdWNu3b1exx29ZwlSev5zUSlj7ewzxcRwRTAzfWcoA/edit) (which is a bestiary for the creatures both used in the story and that exist in the story but were never used). The bestiary is still in the works, but still has a lot of info.
> 
> I have also put up a Q&A regarding some of the more common questions I was asked throughout the course of the story and including a few answers to "what happens next?" and a map of Stiles' barn. [Click here for Q&A](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1q-WydLfflmCPyzvCvqB3AqglbBq3v5SqY76WO1uFYNM/edit)!
> 
> Again, thank you for reading!!


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